The Lost Warrior
by Soledad
Summary: When the Colonial refugees begin to settle down on their new homeworlds, Colonel Omega makes a startling discovery. Post original series, a sequel to 'Crossroads'.
1. Chapter 1 Cycles

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Title: The Lost Warrior**

**Author:** Soledad

**Fandom:** Original Battlestar Galactica (the one and only) x-over with Star Trek TOS.

**Genre:** Action/adventure, Drama

**Rating:** Teens, for now.

**Series:** A sideline product to my "Lost Years" series. Sequel to "Crossroads".

**Disclaimer: **The context and the characters of the Original Star Trek series belong to Gene Roddenberry and whoever keeps the rights right now. Battlestar Galactica belongs to Glen A. Larsen and Universal Studios, as do all the characters that appear in the show. Omega's background is based on the one created by fellow fanfic writer Karen, but isn't identical with that one.

**Timeframe:** Earth year 2271, shortly before "Lost Years Ep 01 – The Joy Machine".

**Summary:** When the Colonial refugees begin to settle down on their new homeworlds, Colonel Omega makes a startling discovery.

**Author's note:** A reader of "Crossroads" complained that I've obviously written out of my story one of the old show's main characters. At the time when "Crossroads" was written (more than a decade ago) this was, indeed, true. But after the "re-imagined" abomination, I reconsidered my decision. Those poor, gender-bent, dishonoured characters needed some reward, after all.

* * *

**Chapter 01 – Cycles**

Colonel Omega had been slowly reaching the conclusion that life – and the universe in general – was moving in cycles. This wasn't an idea appreciated by the stern Kobolian faith in which he'd been raised and which foresaw a straight and narrow path that led to salvation through selfless deeds and high morale, but that was how things seemed to move for him. Perhaps having been married to a Piscon woman – and a follower of the Diwest faith at that – had altered his thinking after all. _Corrupted it_, his grandfather, _Sire_ Lares, would say. _Enlightened him_, his mother, an independent, free-spirited woman would counter.

For him, it was simply a matter of experience. This was the pattern that he seemed to recognize around himself all the time. Cycles. An endless spiral of events that changed with each circle but returned in some form, at a highest level, after each full circle. His life could have been a prime example for this theory.

Before the Destruction, he had been a highly decorated flag officer, on the verge of promotion to Captain and his own command. A happy husband and father of four wonderful children. The eldest of six brothers and sisters. The heir of some considerable health, although only seventh in line to become the head of their family, as his father had been a third son, and he'd had cousins. Lots of them. Few old families on Caprica had been as wealthy and influential and well-respected as his. They practically populated Natacapra, and that had _not_ been a small island.

The destruction had taken from him everything: his family, his wealth, his promotion, his command – even his personal items that had already been transferred to his new ship. He'd been left with a few uniforms for change and a handful of family pictures to remember.

For a long while, he couldn't even remember. He'd gone through his days in some sort of fugue, functioning like an automaton, never fully realising what he'd been doing. To the present day, he'd not been able to remember those first few sectons. He must have done his job well enough, though, as nobody seemed to have noticed anything. But again, the others had been just as shocked and dazed.

He'd been a ghost among an entire army of ghosts. A shadow, moving soundlessly among a whole forest of shadows.

He'd never thought that it would ever change. That the running from the Cylons would come to an end some day. That they would get a chance to lead a normal life again.

And yet, here he was, living in a spacious home on New Caprica, built with the help of the best Federation world-builders (a species called the Tellarites, who had a disturbing resemblance to the ill-remembered Borays). He was the executive officer of the _Galactica_, of all ships, under the command of the newly-promoted Fleet Commander Apollo, none less. He even had a seat in the Planetary Council of New Caprica, being one of the very few surviving patricians. Capricans were traditionalists to their last breath, so he didn't really have the choice to refuse the "honour". And he had a long-term partner, and children in the house, too.

Granted, the house was nothing compared with the manor his ancestors had lived in on Natacapra for fourteen generations. The Planetary Council was a small governmental body, struggling with the enormous task of rebuilding a culture that was nearly lost already; to turn a wild, untamed planet into a home. The old politicians might still be believing in the lead role of Caprica among the New Colonies, but the new generation of planetary leaders, to which Omega also belonged, knew all too well that the greatness and leadership of Caprica was just an illusion.

It could be a dangerous illusion, if they were not vigilant enough. But with _Sire_ (formerly Commander) Adama as the Council's headmaster, they hoped to stay on the right path. It would not only have been dangerous to keep trying to influence the other worlds, though – it would have been virtually impossible.

The New Colonies did not belong to the same solar system anymore. G-132 – now called the Kobol-sector, to honour their origins – was a small, insignificant sector of five solar systems on the very verge of Federation territory, and the New Colonies were scattered all over those systems. New Caprica and New Leonis were the ones on the farthest side, on the rim of the great unknown.

The old politicians had fought for these planets, back when the whole sector had been assigned to the Colonial refugees by the Federation, more than two years ago. The councillors of the once stronger and more influential colonies all wanted to secure these planets for themselves. Not only because these were best suited to support humanoid life, without extensive terraforming measures, but also because they offered the chance to further expansion. Theoretically, at least, as neither New Caprica, nor New Leonis would have the resources to expand, for a _very_ long time yet.

Omega couldn't help but grin bitterly at the foolishness of their old leaders who'd chosen the most vulnerable position, with possible future conquest on their minds. At least the military had managed to secure two of the disabled Cylon basestars for the protection of the system, so that the _Galactica_ stayed free to patrol the borders of the sector.

Becoming the XO of the _Galactica_ was something Omega had never expected. Not before the Destruction – his own command would have been a light frigate, which had matched his abilities back then just finely – and certainly not afterwards, when his promotion would have meant the death of Tigh. Career considerations had become very much of a moot point after the Destruction.

Yet the unexpected fortune of finding their long-lost cousins from Earth had changed everything. The once more or less united fleet split into small groups of refugees again, each of them trying to rebuild their lost world with the help of various Federation planets. The older, more experienced officers of the _Galactica_ had left to serve their own people, leaving Apollo and Omega with a skeleton crew full of newbies.

Tigh had been elected as the Councillor of New Libra and the _Quorum_'s liaison to Starfleet. Boomer and Rigel had joined his staff, as well as Cassiopeia, and were now living on Earth and Mars, respectively. Bojay had been asked to take over the organization of New Piscera's planetary defences. Sheba, insulted about having to give up her personal plans concerning Apollo, had retuned to her mother's people and became heavily involved in Scorpian politics, protegeed by _Sire_ Anton who hadn't taken the loss of his office kindly and was trying his best to make the new President's life living Hades.

Everyone who knew Anton's best shuddered by the perspective and felt very sorry for President Darius.

Personally, Omega didn't mind the loss of Sheba. Sure, she _was_ an ace pilot, but she was also too much like her father – sadly, without Cain's tactical genius to even out a rather… _colourful_ personality – for Omega's peace of mind. But that meant that Jolly, Greenbean, Giles and Brie were the only ones from the old fighting squadrons Omega could still count on. Dietra, too, had chosen to return to her people, helping with the terraforming of New Libra as well as she could, and Starbuck… Starbuck had been lost for a long time. He'd already been lost when the fleet had crossed the singularity to find this new home, and there was no hope to find him ever again, now that that space-time rift was closed for good.

Omega had his own ties to Starfleet, of course. It was inevitable, as he was practically responsible for the border defences. Apollo, bearing the burdens of the Fleet Commander, had to keep an eye on all other available ships, and he had to visit the Cylon basestar-turned-space-stations on a regular basis, as he answered to the _Quorum of Twelve_ directly. That meant the _Galactica_ was almost solely Omega's responsibility in these days.

He'd accepted the additional workload – and the long overdue promotion – with his usual, unflappable calm. This was what he'd been bred and trained for, after all. Aside from power and money, that is, but those two lay still in the very far future. If ever. His only complaint was that these even-longer-than-usual duty hours kept him away from his new, adopted family too often. Fortunately, he could always count on Aurora to back him.

He'd been surprised – well, shocked would have been abetter word perhaps – to find her distant cousin alive on the _Celestra_. Aurora belonged to a penniless side branch of their mighty clan – a branch that had been considered an embarrassment and thus never discussed. _Sire_ Lares would have flat out denied having ever had a cousin who'd ran off and married a low-born Taurus, and a follower of the Aldebarian faith, who'd lived in a _troika_, a three-way clan marriage at that. But they were _blood_, nonetheless, and Omega welcomed Aurora in his house with open arms. He found it a strange irony of Fate that only the two of them had survived of an army of cousins, uncles, aunts and other relatives, but he was not willing to let her go, for reasons that, in his opinion, no longer counted.

Aurora was a skilled technician and a good shuttle pilot, and Omega intended to lure her over to the _Galactica_, eventually. That had been before the children, of course. The arrival of the children in the new house had changed everything.

During their long, arduous journey towards Earth, Omega had been paying semi-regular visits to the Orphan Ship. Not as often as he'd have preferred, duty had always been a harsh taskmistress, but as often as he'd managed to shuttle over. At first he'd hoped to find someone of his family – they _had_ had a townhouse in Caprica City, after all, so there _had_ been a slim chance (granted, a _very_ slim one) that one of his children, or nephews, or nieces, had somehow survived. They'd been such a large family – and one important enough for any surviving children to be saved and brought to the evacuating shuttles.

He had found none of his own blood. But he'd kept returning to the Orphan Ship, because by then, he'd bonded with some of the children already. With adorable, dark-curled little Momo whose true name, Mnemosyne, was really way too long and complicated for a then-seven-yahrens-old, and who was a little slow at learning and would probably always be. With Aggie (or Aglayah, as she was officially named), a precocious redhead of then eleven yahrens, whom anyone would have taken home gladly, had she not come with two younger brothers attached; nobody wanted _three_ kids at once.

Nobody but Omega, that is. He'd always had an entire team of siblings around him – had always wanted a _really_ big family. So, as soon as they'd started building the house, he talked to Aurora, and in the end, they'd not only taken Aggie and her brother with them, but also Momo and six-yahren-old Chelle, who was a sweet and smart girl but had stopped to grow at the age of four and counted therefore as damaged.

The couples – or single persons – who'd been willing to take in orphans of suspicious origins to begin with, had wanted babies. Cute, _healthy_ babies. Omega, however, had just shrugged when the matrons of the Orphan Ship had reminded him that both Momo and Chelle were damaged, and the boys, Mechi (Melchisedech) and Ari (Aharon) had serious attitude problems.

"One can't choose one's own children, either," He'd answered. "I was very lucky with mine, but they're dead. I've got empty places where they used to be, and these children don't really have that many choices, do they? We'll take them."

His decision turned out a fairly good one. He'd always known that Aggie was an unusually mature, reliable child – oldest children of poor Virgon _agrists_ usually were that by default – who had taken care of her brothers like a mother hen on the Orphan Ship already. By now, at the age of fourteen, she'd have already been married off to a man twice or more her age, according to the Virgon custom of linear marriages. Instead, she'd practically adopted Momo and Chelle as her sisters, teaching them everything she'd been taught at a very tender age to become a good housekeeper, training them in housework and gardening and showing them how to read and to write and to use computers.

She'd formed a bond with Aurora as quickly as she would have done with the elder wives of her Virgon family, and between the two if them, they ran the household like a well-oiled machine. With the frequent visits of Apollo's son, Boxey, and his current best friend of the secton, the house was full with laughter and children's noises again, and Omega loved it.

True, sometimes he missed Clementia and their kids so badly that it hurt. Aggie and her brothers, who could remember their parents well enough, often struggled with the same grief. Aurora was still grieving for her family and her lost loves, and Momo and Chelle, found as abandoned babies and never known anything else but the orphanages, felt often… well, _lost_. But somehow, they always pulled themselves together, holding on to each other, and kept going. They had the others to relay on, after all.

* * *

The insistent beeping of the comm unit woke him from his brooding. A glance at the control panel told him that it was a planetary call. Federation technology did have its advantages. He switched on the unit and Athena's beautiful face smiled at him from the viewscreen.

"I hope I'm not interrupting any important family events," she said apologetically.

"Not at all," Omega assured her warmly. He'd always liked Adama's daughter very much; she was an excellent bridge officer _and_ a loyal friend. "What can I do for you, Athena?"

"I was told you're about to shuttle over to Semiramis," Athena said. "Is that correct?"

Omega nodded. "Yes, I have to discuss synchronizing the border patrols with Commodore Hunter," he replied. "And Jana needs to catch the next crew transporter. Her orders have just been dispatched. The _Enterprise_ is about to embark on her new five-year-mission."

"Oh, I see," there was something akin vague sympathy in Athena's pale blue eyes. "It's hard on you, I guess?"

Omega shrugged. "Not really. We both knew the day would come; that's Service for you. Besides, it's not like I'm alone. The house is as full as it can get, you know."

"I know," Athena laughed. "Boxey and I have just visited a secton ago, remember? Well, I happen to have a commission on Semiramis myself, and I was wondering if I could go with you? Interplanetary traffic is not what it could be, and I still don't have a shuttle of my own."

"Sure, why not? I'll pick you up at the spaceport."

"But if you'd rather spend the last centares privately, I'd understand…" Athena trailed off.

"Actually, we're taking Aggie with us," Omega told her. "She's getting tested for a Federation school aboard the space station – I want her to have the best education she can get; she's a smart girl. So, Jana and I won't be alone anyway. You don't have to worry about our privacy."

Athena gave him one of those luminous smiles that always made him wonder how Starbuck could have given her up for Cassiopeia. Sure, Cassie was a nice person, and – due to her former profession – most likely very skilled in bed, but she had neither Athena's class, nor her ethereal beauty. _Well, men tend to be fools most of the time when they choose their women_, he decided, although he'd always considered himself an exception. People who'd known Clementia would have agreed with him.

"Thanks," Athena said, without noticing his short mental absence. "I owe you one for that."

"And I intend to collect my debts," he grinned; that was an old private joke between the two of them. "I'll see you at the spaceport in four centares, then."

"I'll be on time," Athena promised, and then she severed the comm link.

* * *

Omega checked his chrono and realized that he'd got barely a few centons left till midday meal. The children, used to the strict daily schedule of the Orphan Ship, still lived by that structure, and he saw no reason to change anything they were comfortable with. He rose from his desk at the same moment as Chelle stuck her curly blonde head through the half-opened door (by building the house, they'd opted against automatic slide doors for security reasons) and beamed at him.

"Pa," she chirped, "we're ready to eat now!"

They all called him Pa, by some unspoken agreement. He suspected part of the reason was that Aggie and her sibs didn't want anyone to usurp the place of their real Dads. And longer words were a struggle for Momo, so they'd chosen something she could easily pronounce, too.

"That's good," he said, picking up the little girl as he would pick up a doll. "I'm very hungry. What about you?"

The curly head nodded empathically. Chelle might have stopped growing, but there was _nothing_ wrong with her appetite. Sometimes Omega thought all that growth she didn't show was going into that incredibly thick mane of hers – she looked like a baby lionet. Silly as it sounded, Omega sometimes wondered if cropping her hair short would cause a sudden growth spurt by her. He knew it was a stupid thought, of course, and made a mental note to bring her to the medical facilities of Semiramis as soon as possible. While Federation medicine couldn't work wonders either, it was a good deal more advanced than that of the Colonies. Perhaps the doctors of the Starbase could help the little girl.

The kids had already gathered around the long table – the spacious dining room had been designed with a really large family on mind – and they were bouncing with excitement. Which could only mean one thing: Aggie had learned – or created – a new dish again. Omega looked forward to the experience with mild trepidation. Aggie was a surprisingly good cook for her age (she had to be, she'd been supposed to marry by her current age, after all) but sometimes she got too enthusiastic with experimenting. Whether it was done with the Starfleet-issue food synthesizer, the programming of which she apparently found very inspiring, or with real food that she grew in the garden.

Today was real food day, it seemed, and Omega eyed the strange looking, greenish ovals that had been filled with some indefinable stuff warily.

"Do I want to know what this is?" he asked in deep suspicion.

Aggie bounced on her feet with excitement, the freckles practically glowing in her face.

"Stuffed eggplants," she explained brightly. "With minced meat and cheese. I got the seeds from Semiramis and grew the plants in the garden."

"She truly has the green thumb," Aurora commented, and then, after a look at Omega's doubtful face, she laughed. "Don't worry, they're not _that_ bad. It's an acquired taste, I won't deny that, but it grows on you."

"I've eaten in the O Club for many yahrens," Omega declared with dignity. "In fact, I still eat there when on duty. So, I'm not easily shocked by food."

"Besides, it's real food, so it can only be delicious," Ensign Jana Haines, one of Starfleet's finest, entered the dining room, wearing the new blue-and-black uniform of the science division already, and took her usual seat on Omega's right. Aurora always chose to sit at the other end of the table, so that he could keep an eye on everything and everyone.

"Would you speak the Blessing, Pa?" Aggie begged.

Omega suppressed a sigh. Praying at the dinner table had _not_ been a custom in his family, except in grandfather Lares' strict Kobolian household, and it was something he really didn't feel comfortable with. Clementia had used to light a candle in the middle of the table, and they had been silent for a moment – that had the proper beginning of a meal for him.

But Aggie and her brothers hailed from a very simple Virgon family that belonged to the Soldiers of God, an almost militantly religious cult imported from Sagittaria, and blessing the food was one of the few family traditions they could still remember. Omega wasn't going to take that little piece of emotional safety from them – although he really, honestly hoped they'd grow out of it eventually.

It wasn't always easy to have a family with so many different customs and religious beliefs.

"All right," he gave in, albeit a little reluctantly. "Although you could do it yourselves just as fine, you know."

Aggie shook her head so energetically that her short, thick red hair flew in all directions. "Nah, it's something the head of the family must do!"

Something their eldest father had always done, apparently. It was a sign how much they had accepted him in that role already. A prayer now and then really wasn't such a high price for that heart-warming fact, Omega tried to persuade himself.

So he spoke the Blessing, ignoring Aurora's tolerant smile (her family, although nominally Aldebarians, had been on the rather… secular side, too) and they ate the peculiar-looking food that, in fact, turned out to taste a lot better than it looked. After they had stuffed the leftovers into the fridge and the dishes into the dishwasher, Omega sent Aggie to the children's wing to use the turbowash and to change, and then he turned to his partner.

"Have you packed everything?"

Jana Haines nodded and smiled. "I've been ready for hours," he replied. "You know I prefer to travel light."

"Yes, but you've been living here with us more than a yah… a _year_ by now," Omega pointed out. "Things have a tendency to multiply when one stays on one place for a while. Of course, you can always leave part of your things here. You don't need to _clear_ your rooms."

"Yes, I do," she answered gently but firmly. "You know that as well as I do. It would be only delaying the inevitable."

Omega nodded, feeling a bit disappointed that he couldn't lure her into some sort of commitment, no mater what. But he should have known better – she was a woman who knew what she wanted and preferred to lay down clear rules.

She'd made it adamantly clear that their affair… relationship… whatever… was timely limited; that it would only last as long as she'd get her new assignment. She didn't believe in "subspace relationship", as she called it, and as a talented and aspiring scientist (and an astrophysicist at that, who worked in space), she wasn't willing to give up a promising career in Starfleet, just to settle down on some backward planet, with a man she was only lightly attached to, and with five children who were strangers to her.

In the end, it all came down to this: she wasn't one of them, she couldn't possibly feel the same urge to protect what little was left from their previous lives. She had a life on her own, and that life had just begun.

They'd first met during the exchange program between the _Galactica_ and the _Enterprise_, more than two years ago. A fairly good mathematician himself, Omega had got to work with the Federation scientist from Astrophysics and Stellar Cartography. He'd noticed the slender, supremely elegant, reddish-blonde woman at once. Being a blue-blooded patrician himself, he recognized a fellow aristocrat from a hundred metrons. And indeed, Jana Haines not only belonged to the nobility of science – her father, Sir Andrew Prine-Haines, held the Lucasian chair at Cambridge University, after all – she was also of high social circles, being related, however distantly, to the royal family of England.

Not that it would have meant any particular advantage on Earth in these days, with the Queen herself having long become a social peculiarity, stubbornly loved by English people yet forgivingly smiled upon by anyone else. Still belonging to English nobility meant a sophisticated level of education, both in the scientific sense of the word and in social graces; an education that was very similar to the one Omega had received in his youth. Small wonder that they'd understood each other splendidly.

The understanding had led to closeness, and after a while, to physical intimacy. It wasn't love, from either side, but it was something that helped them both to deal with all too recent losses. A comfortable, amiably restrained, highly satisfying arrangement. The only thing missing from it was true fire, but Omega didn't really mind playing safe for a while. His past hurts were still way too far from being completely healed. He didn't need any new ones, not for quite some time yet.

Perhaps one day he'd have the strength and the courage to fall in love again. To take risks. But for the time being, he was content in this safe, comfortable relationship. _If_ it could be called a relationship at all. But whatever it was, for now, it was enough.

Truth be told, he'd grown accustomed to Jana's presence in the house. To wake up with a warm body next to him in the bed. To have someone to talk to, someone who could look at his struggles with a friendly but detached eye. He was going to miss her, and so were the children, although they had no illusions about the temporary nature of her presence. Perhaps that was why they never called her any other way but by her given name. They had felt, instinctively, that she wasn't there to stay; to fill the role of the mother in their lives.

Children could be unexpectedly wise in these things.

They seemed to like Jana well enough, though. Especially Aggie had grown to like her a lot. Jana had taught her computer skills way beyond the level of kids of her age, and she turned her interest towards science, at least to a certain extent. But all the children had kept a certain distance to Jana – unlike Aurora, they treated her like well-liked guest, not as a family member.

"Let's get moving; we need to pick up _Siress_ Athena at the spaceport," Omega said with a small sigh. He hated the thought of Jana leaving, the same way as one hates to give up some convenience one had gotten used to. But he knew he couldn't do anything to change her mind.

Besides, did he really wanted her to give up everything for him, the way Clementia had given up her career as she'd become pregnant with their first child? Did he want to spend the rest of his life with Jana in matrimonial bliss?

No; if he wanted to be completely honest, he had to admit that he didn't. She was an attractive, elegant, supremely educated woman, they were a perfect match socially, and she was _safe_. But even that feeling of safety, the relief that he didn't have to engage himself emotionally too deeply, showed that they didn't love each other. He could let her go with regret – but without heartbreak.

* * *

Aggie came running down the stairs, proudly wearing her first "good dress" – a simple pale red one, in the colour of her recently achieved maturity (on Virgon, girls of fourteen yahrens were considered fit for marriage), and reached down to mid-calf as the gowns of adults would do. But the soft white shawl around her shoulders clearly signalled her unwed status – a status that Omega fervently hoped to keep at least for six more years. They weren't on Virgon anymore; she could afford to remain a child as long as she wanted, to dream her own dreams, to plan her own life. There was no need to hurry growing up, not any longer.

"I'm ready, Pa," she announced, adjusting the thin strap of her electronic notebook – _tricorder_, these clever little instruments were called in Federation Standard – on her shoulder. She was wearing a white flower beyond one ear. She looked positively radiant.

"And so am I," Jana Haines added, lifting her impressive carry-alls with practiced ease. "Let's go, folks, I have a crew transporter to catch.

They packed everything into the hovermobile – the first factory for these small and well-maneuvreable vehicles had just started production on New Sagittara less than a yahren ago, making Dr. Wilker a _very_ rich man – and then it cane to the inevitable goodbyes. The younger children endured Jana's hugs good-naturedly, but when they had to part with Aggie as well, for the first time since the Destruction, there _was_ some sobbing, and it came to teary protests.

Aggie talked to them patiently in a voice too low for the adults to understand – it almost sounded like some sort of spell. And it seemed to work, too, as after a while even Momo, sweet, slow-witted Momo understood that Aggie was _not_ leaving them for good, and she stopped bawling. Chelle, brave little lionet that she was, didn't cry, just stared at Aggie with huge, envious eyes.

"When I'm all grown up, I'll too go to a Federation school," she declared loudly, obviously willing to fight anyone who might protest.

"If that's what you want, you can do it, of course," Omega agreed, deciding wisely _not_ to voice his doubts about Chelle's growing up – at least where the physical side of growing was considered. "Now, children, let Aggie go, so that we can reach the station on time. We want to be back for evening meal in a secton's time, but we can't do that if you don't let us start on schedule."

The undeniable logic of this argument persuaded even the _very_ stubborn boys to let go of their older sister. Omega understood their reluctance all too well. Aggie had been their safety belt ever since losing their mothers and fathers in the Destruction. The only unmovable rock in the storms of their young lives. Who'd let willingly go of something – someone – like that?

In fact, they'd probably never have been taken to the evac vessels at all – poor _agrist_ families from Virgo hadn't exactly been trop priority – had Aggie not cleverly (and, as it turned out, falsely) claimed kinship with the legendary Commander Thor. Luckily for them, the linear Virgon marriages resulted in intricate family ties that couldn't be unravelled without careful examination, this she'd managed to save herself and her brothers.

_It wasn't the most selfless action, for sure,_ Omega mused, _but who could blame a then-eleven-yahren-old when many adults did the same – only in a much more aggressive manner? And no one can deny that leaving Aggie behind would have been a criminal waste._

When she'd grown up, Aggie would understand that she'd saved herself and her siblings at the cost of other lives. She'd probably be ashamed for it – but she'd never regret doing so, of that Omega was certain. It had been a life-or-death situation, where the survival of the fittest had decided the outcome, and she'd been just a child, responsible for her even younger brothers who'd depended on her in everything. How could she have acted differently?

Omega smiled at his oldest child – for weren't they all _his_ now? – with a strange mixture of pride and pity. She was a strong, resilient child. She'd understand the true costs of their survival eventually – but she'd also be able to live with that knowledge.

They got into the hovermobile – Aggie took the back seat, so that she could wave the other kids – and the small vehicle left the courtyard in a vide, elegant curve. Her adventure had just begun.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2 Semiramis

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's note:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

Specifications for the Colonial Shuttle are from the Battlestar Galactica Technical Manual website.

* * *

**Chapter 02 – Semiramis**

In a last attack of the good, old-fashioned delusion of grandeur, New Caprica City had built for itself – with the extensive help of several Federation worlds, mostly human colonies – the biggest (and, as the locals liked to boast, the best) spaceport on New Caprica. Or anywhere else in the entire Kobol-sector, for that matter.

The fact that the planet didn't actually _need_ such a monster facility, especially considering their access to Federation transporter technology, which made it possible to beam persons and cargo directly to their destination, had been of no consideration during the planning phase. Granted, not all Colonial vessels had been equipped with transporters yet, especially not the shuttlecrafts, so that a lot of the transporting was still being done by traditional methods. Still, Omega couldn't help but shake his head in less-than-tolerant amusement at the megalomania that had resulted in the construction of a spaceport fit to deal with twenty thousand travellers at a time. Which was approximately the entire population of New Caprica right now.

And those less-than-twenty-thousand weren't even all Capricans. Many other people whose planet was still being terraformed had chosen to live on New Caprica, until their world would become more habitable. Not everyone was as stubborn as many Librans and Virgons, who were working on the shaping of their planets with their very hands, dwelling on the sorted-out Cylon basestars in the meantime.

Yet not all the travellers hurrying on their way through the main concourse of the spaceport were of Colonial origins, either – or even human, for that matter. Omega, now fairly familiar with the many member races of the Federation, could easily pick out the slim, elegant Vulcan scientists with their elfin ears; the Boray-like but extremely efficient Tellarite construction workers, without whose skills New Caprica would still look like a refugee camp; the deceivingly fragile, bald-headed Deltan pilots and navigators who served on interstellar starliners in surprisingly great numbers; or Andorian technicians, who, with their twin antennae and their stiff vests looked like oversized, pale blue insects. There were other, more human-looking races, too, that could still easily be recognized as foreigners nevertheless. Body language always revealed a great deal.

For Omega, this was a familiar sight already, having visited Federation facilities many times. But Aggie, who'd never left the planet since their arrival, was staring at the colourful shuffle with eyes of the size of dinner plates. She'd seen holopics of the more... exotic Federation races, of course, but that was very different from seeing them with her own eyes. Oh, the stories she'd tell her siblings would last for at least a secton!

Omega let her stare in open-mouthed awe for a few sectons, then he gently nudged her to move.

"Come on, Aggie. We shouldn't have _Siress_ Athena waiting. Besides, this is nothing compared with Semiramis, I promise."

"Semiramis is even bigger?" the girl asked in disbelief.

Omega nodded. "Twenty times bigger, with twenty times as many people aboard as here, I swear. Now, can we move on? The shuttleport is this way, and we really need to hurry up."

With considerable reluctance, the girl tore her eyes from the almost hypnotic shuffling and bustling of the crowd and followed him obediently. She'd been promised to see even bigger and busier places, after all.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Basically, the shuttleport was a huge landing area with a virtual roof: a forcefield that could be partially disabled above each landing pad. It opened just a small window, so that starting and landing required a really good pilot. Theoretically, both Athena and Omega were skilled enough to fly the maneuver – right now, though, there was no need for them to do it themselves. They were using one of the _Galactica_'s shuttles that was about to return to the battlestar, after some thorough maintenance work. A little detour to the Federation Starbase was within acceptable limits. Besides, rank had its privileges.

The landing area was scattered with Starfleet-issue shuttlecrafts: small, sleek, pearly white short-range vehicles. Among them, the few remaining Colonial shuttles looked like dinosaurs, with their 20 metrons of length and their battered, iron-grey hulls. For that, however, they were capable of travelling in deep space for two sectons, as well as flying in the atmosphere of a planet, carrying as much as twenty passengers and six hundred kilograms (or fifty-four cubic metrons) of cargo. Unlike Starfleet-issue shuttles, they had no weapons, but a 4.5 centimetron thick, re-enforced armoured hull. They might be a little less well-maneuvreable than their Starfleet counterparts, but they were sturdy little vessels – and very reliable ones.

Athena was already waiting for them, and as always, Omega was a little surprised to see her in civilian clothes. It was silly, he knew. After all, she'd left Service and went into politics as soon as New Caprica had been established. While her father – after some reluctance – _had_ agreed to become the chairman of the Planetary Council, Athena had higher ambitions. Among her long-term plans, there was a seat in the _Quorum_, eventually, and she had every chance to win it, given enough time. For the time being, she seemed content with the position of a Special Emissary. She'd been delegated to deal with local Federation authorities – that meant the commander of the Starbase and the Federation ambassadors who lived there – and had even her own office and suite on the base.

The only thing she still didn't have was a personal shuttlecraft. She _had_ been promised one, similar to the _Antares_, Colonel Tigh's ambassadorial vessel, but the small ship hadn't arrived yet. Deep Space Station Epsilon-7 was well beyond the usual trade routes. Athena had to wait until the next Starfleet cargo ship reached the Starbase.

Which, as she told Omega a bit sourly while they were boarding the _Galactica_ shuttle, hadn't happened yet. That's why she depended on favours.

"What are you going to the Starbase for, then?" Omega asked, after having given Sergeant Giles, who was to pilot the shuttle, permission to initiate start sequence.

"I'm having an appointment with the Special Emissary of Alpha II," Athena replied. At Omega's blank look, she added helpfully. "Alpha III? Home of the famous Statutes of Alpha III? One of the first Earth colonies, modelled loosely after Plato's Republic? _That_ Alpha III?"

"Oh," Omega said, finally having a clue. "The world the Gemoni stated had originally been populated by their ancestors who'd supposedly followed the Thirteenth Tribe?"

"A statement for which no proof has been found so far," Athena grinned, "nor is it likely that any would be found, ever. Which doesn't hinder the Otori sect harping about how the old Gemoni colony died out because of their carnal nature."

"Well, if nothing else, that legend secured New Gemini the special assistance of Alpha III," Omega said. "In hindsight, I'd say it was a clever move."

"I think the most recent political unrest on Alpha III have played a more important role in that," Jana Haines, always up-to-date in Federation politics, said. "There was quite an upheaval when Dr. Henry Justinian, a prominent member of the Planetary Senate, tried to initiate a change in the Statutes not so long ago, thus laying down the basics of a new caste system in their society."

"And people listened to _that_?" Omega asked incredulously. "In the twenty-third century?"

Jana shrugged. "Dr. Justinian is a big-name archaeologist and a fabulous rhetor. Alpha III's society allows political debates to be fought out publicly, on the agoras, and they often have a great effect on the elections and other votings. Dr. Justinian had a small, but very influential following – among them a certain Lang Caradon, they say, who's easily the richest man of the Federation. They could have caused a lot of trouble, as Dr. Justinian cleverly based his ideas on Plato's writings. Had he got through with his "reforms", it would have been very complicated to undo the damage afterwards."

"But he hasn't succeeded, has he?" Athena asked, more than a little worried. That was definitely _not_ the influence she'd have wanted on New Gemini. The Otori, with their fanatic views, were bad enough to deal with.

"No," Jana smiled. "Fortunately, he's found his equal, or more than his equal, in arkhon Andronicus Palamas. My uncle, who happens to be a diplomat, had the pleasure to listen to their great debate – he says it was a most astonishing event of rhetoric. I can get you a transcript if you're interested; On Alpha III, all important debates appear in print on the following day. The bottom line is: not only has arkhon Palamas torn Dr. Justinian's suggestion to pieces – based strictly on Plato's writings, of course – but Dr. Justinian has also lost his seat in the Planetary Senate and was sent to some godforsaken asteroid to lead the diggings on one of the twenty-three completely identical outposts of the Great Ones."

"The great… what?" Omega frowned.

"A highly advanced race that's supposedly died out a few million years ago," Jana explained. "Not exactly a stellar assignment for a renowned archaeologist. And with that, the upheaval on Alpha III was settled. But I think the authorities were happy to dispatch a lot of people to help New Gemini and so give the population a new problem to work on."

"Palamas?" Athena repeated the name. "I'm supposed to meet someone with that name."

"You'd be dealing with the arkhon's daughter, _Carolyn_ Palamas, most likely," Jana said. "Such assignments are usually given to junior diplomats, and Carolyn has just started a temporary career in diplomacy about a year ago. As a part-time job, more or less."

"Do you know her?" Omega asked. It never ceased to surprise him how well-informed his partner – well, his _ex-partner_ now – always seemed in everything important that was going on in the Federation. Her family might not have power any longer, but hey sure as Hades had influence and contacts.

Jana laughed. "You know her, too," she said. "She was – well, I assume she still _is_ – the A&A officer of the _Enterprise_. Unless she got herself a reassignment, but I doubt that. Nobody would leave the _Enterprise_ for another ship, not voluntarily. I believe Carolyn only started dabbing in diplomacy to avoid any other long-term assignments and be available when the _Enterprise_ launches again."

"Just like you," Omega said softly. Jana nodded.

"You can't imagine the grief my father has given me during the last two and half years," she said. "He wanted me to settle down in some boring lab, start some boring thesis only half a dozen people would ever read, perhaps win a price or an award nobody would care for anyway, and generally give up my career as a Starfleet officer."

Athena laughed. She still could remember vividly how much it had stung when her father had permanently assigned her to the bridge, successfully ending her promising career as a Viper pilot, once and forever.

"Not ready for that, are you?" she asked. Jana grinned back at her in complete understanding.

"I'll have enough time to age in dignity later," the astrophysicist replied. "I want to _see_ the cosmic phenomena I might eventually write a thesis about first. Father is a very good scientist – well, more than just good, actually, it needs a certain degree of genius to win the Nobel and Zee-Magnees Prizes – but he's only ever seen things on holopics or through a telescope. I'm not like that. I'll probably never make a scientific breakthrough like my father, but at the very least I'll be able to say that I've been to places where no one has been before and seen things no one has seen before."

Her eyes were gleaming as she said that, and Omega understood how futile it would have been to expect that she might change her mind and stay with them on New Caprica. Even helping to rebuild the Caprican Flight Academy would have been too boring, too restraining for her. She was an adventurer at heart. Keeping her in one place would mean cutting her wings.

Aggie, who'd listened to them quietly all the time, seemed to understand this, too. She was a smart girl, after all, used to watch the adults around her with a critical eye.

"You're not coming back to us, are you?" she said. It wasn't a question, not really. Jana smiled at her.

"Sure I am," she said. "I'll visit you whenever I can."

Aggie didn't roll her eyes, not truly. That would have been disrespectful, and she was a polite kid. But it was a close thing.

"I mean, you're not coming to live with us again," she clarified. Jana shook her head.

"No, dear, I won't. It was lovely, as long as it lasted, but I need to go on with my life now."

Aggie nodded, not particularly upset by the answer.

"We all knew you'd go one day," she said simply. "But Pa's going to miss you." _Not us, we won't_, the unspoken part of the message hung very clearly between them in the air.

"He'll find someone else," Jana replied with a rueful smile. "Someone who's better suited for your family."

"He only needs to find someone for himself," Aggie said with a shrug. "We don't need anyone else. We're fine with Aurora, and she likes living with us. But one day she, too, will find someone, and even if they'll stay with us, Pa will be alone. It's not good to be alone. Not for him, nor for anyone else."

"I think this is not the right time or the right place to discuss my future love life," Omega intervened sternly. "We're about to leave our solar system. You should watch, Aggie, it's a beautiful sight."

Aggie, knowing that she'd overstepped her boundaries a bit, shut up obediently and watched as they passed New Caprica Station – one of the sorted-out Cylon basestars that served as the main defence weapon for their system. It wasn't a very spectacular view, she found: a grey, metallic double-disc, generously lined with mean-looking weapons. Definitely not something she'd be interested in, but she didn't want Pa to be angry with her.

In a Virgon family, she'd have had the right to help selecting a new wife for the head of the family – either as the eldest daughter still at home or as a junior wife in her new family. She understood that Capricans had different customs and that she had to adjust to those customs, now, that she lived in a Caprican family. In fact, she was relieved that she wouldn't have to marry for quite a few years yet; that she could learn and enjoy her life instead. Still, it irked her when Pa dismissed her like the younger children.

Back home, she'd be seen as an adult. In a Caprican family, she was still a child. She understood that this was the price of freedom – a freedom she'd never have at home. She'd accepted it. But that didn't mean she had to _like_ it, right?

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

As a young flag officer, Omega had served on various ships, including the _Sanguine Expectation_ and the _Hesperian Dream_, and visited many worlds, in- and outside Colonial territory. He'd seen true wonders of architecture (one of his secret pleasures he seldom shared with anyone), from the pyramidal sky-scrapers to the delicate crystalline cities of Gomoray. But even he had to admit that barely any of them could come close to the amazingness that was Deep Space Station Epsilon-7.

Federation databases said that Epsilon-7 (called simply Starbase 7, most of the time, for shortness' sake, and in homage of the time when it still had been a Starfleet outpost) was the biggest, most elaborate space stations ever built within Federation territory. From afar, it looked like a five-pointed star, with a terraced, cylindrical tower in the middle, and a mushroom-shaped section on top. The points of the star radiated from a discus-like centerpiece that surrounded the middle of the central tower, and ended in small towers that looked like miniature spacedocks, each of which could have several ships of various size docked at it at the same time. The terraces above the centerpiece were hydroponic gardens that bore a striking resemblance to the Colonial agroships; the ones below housed industrial factories and surrounded the main reactor core, which, for its part, tapered down to a massive communications tower with powerful antennae.

Basically, it was a self-supporting city, floating in deep space, housing half a million inhabitants, one quarter of which were humans, the rest hailed from every possible member world of the Federation – or outside it. The locals called their city Semiramis, because of the wondrous terraced gardens and were fiercely proud of it… for which they had every right, Omega judged. Based on a technology developed by the architects of Ardana, who were famous of their floating cities back on their homeworld, Semiramis was a shining jewel indeed.

The miniature towers at the end of the five extremities were diplomatic areas, housing the embassies of Vulcan, Andor, the Alpha Centauri Concordium of Planets, Tellar and 114 Delta V. Other Federation worlds had just smaller consulates that were situated in the VIP area of the habitat tower, but due to Semiramis' strategic position at the verge of unknown space – and now as the transit station to the New Colonies – every Federation world of some importance wanted to have a representative here.

Originally, Semiramis had been a Terran foundation, but slowly, bit by bit, members of many other species had moved there, and in the end it became an independent colony, with full Federation membership. As such, it had its own armed forces, its own industry, its own trade agreements with various Federation worlds, and now with the New Colonies as well. The terraces, the centerpiece and the five extensions had been added to the central tower in a span of twenty years, with the terraces being the latest additions. They had only been built some six years earlier.

Nominally, the colony was still a Starfleet outpost – which was the reason why it was occasionally still called Starbase 7 – but the Fleet's presence was practically restricted to the persons of the military governor, one Commodore Hunter, her executive officer, Lt. Cmdr. Anderson, and an unknown number of specialists who operated the impressive defence grid of the station. Omega didn't know how many those troops served there, but it must have been quite a number. They needed to work in four shifts around the clock, after all, and the station was _huge_.

Everything else was done by the inhabitant themselves. And since they'd come from almost every single world of the Federation, sooner or later one could find the right expert for just everything. In fact, the New Colonies couldn't have asked for a better neighbourhood. Semiramis offered education, experts, industry, and considerable financial and military support. In other worlds – civilization.

Something that the Colonies bitterly needed after the destruction of their own.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Giles docked the shuttle at the central docking area, right below the mushroom-shaped top piece of the station, and prepared to return to the _Galactica_ at once.

"Do you want me to fetch you in the next secton, sir?" he asked Omega before departing. Omega shook his head.

"No, we'll return with the regular shuttle," he said. "I need to take Aggie home before I return to duty. My furlong is over in ten days. Altair is in command of the bridge until then; he needs practice, so I won't be looking over his shoulder if I don't have to."

"Yes, sir," Giles replied with a smart salute and left.

Omega, Athena, Aggie and Jana left the shuttle bay and went to the lounge to study the interactive station map that was integrated into the wall there.

"All right," Omega said, having found the education centre after a short dialogue with the computer. "It seems we need to go down two levels and then to Section Delta. Which is two sections away, in _this_ direction…"

Jana touched his arm gently. "We'd better part here," she said. "I have to go back to Operations, to check in for the crew transporter and to get my orders. No need to avoid the inevitable any longer." She hugged Aggie briefly and kissed Omega one last time. "Take care. I'll call you when I've got aboard the _Enterprise_."

"I certainly hope so," Omega replied with mock dignity. "I expect regular and detailed reports about your adventures."

"I'll see what I can do," Jana laughed, albeit a bit uncomfortably. "I hope you won't find them too boring… I tend to add all those scientific details to my reports. Well… I'll be better going no. There's no use to… to prolong this unnecessarily."

She made an awkward gesture of farewell and hurried away. Despite being prepared for this, Omega felt a sudden wave of sadness. While they hadn't truly been in love, they'd had a good time together, and he knew it would be hard to get used to being alone again.

Athena laid a comforting hand upon his forearm, but she knew better than ask. Not about his feelings anyway. They'd been friends and colleagues long enough for her to know how futile an effort _that_ would be.

"Where are you going to stay?" she asked instead.

Omega shrugged. "I'm sure they have rooms here that we can book for the few nights."

"Nonsense," Athena said. "I've got an entire diplomatic suite, with several bedrooms and a perfectly good food synthesizer, not to mention personnel, all for myself. You can stay with me; it will be more fun that way."

"Well," Omega hesitated a bit, but then he decided that it would be better for Aggie indeed than in some rent room with the Lords only knew what kind of neighbours. "Thank you, Athena."

"Don't mention it," Athena smiled. "Now, how long, do you think, your debriefing with the commodore will take?"

"I have no idea," Omega admitted. "I might have to wait for her a while – I couldn't make an appointment in advance as I didn't know how long Aggie would need for her tests."

"I see," Athena said. "What if I fetched Aggie after her tests? We can make a stroll on the shopping mall afterwards, have something to eat, perhaps go to a play or a concert. A girl of her age deserves a little fun every time and again… and it will give you enough time to take care of border patrol business with the commodore."

Omega looked at Aggie an askance. "Would you like that?"

The girl nodded eagerly, a huge grin practically splitting her face from ear to ear.

"Good, then it's settled," Athena produced one of those new, Starfleet-issue wrist communicators that looked more like a bracelet than like a comm device and closed it around Aggie's wrist. "Contact me when you're don," looking at Omega, she added. "You're welcome to join us any time you want, you know."

"I'll skip the shopping tour, I think," Omega shuddered demonstratively. "As far as for the rest – it depends on how long the debriefing will last. A play or a concert would be nice, in fact. Just like in old times."

"Like in old times," Athena agreed softly, her blue eyes darkening with memories. Due to the age difference between them, they had hardly ever met in their childhood. But they'd belonged to the same circles, to Caprica's aristocracy, and so they'd gone through the same classical education. Going to the theatre or to concerts had been an integral part of their youth, and they both missed those simple pleasures.

"We'll contact you," Athena promised; then she gave Aggie a brief but firm hug. "Good luck, kid! Show them what you have!"

"I will," the girl promised. "I'll make Pa proud."

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

After Omega and his daughter had gone their way, Athena caught the station's shuttle – an overhead railway with connected cars – and travelled to the Centaurian embassy, where she had her appointment with Carolyn Palamas. She'd visited that part of the station before, as the Centaurians willingly housed any diplomatic conferences for allied worlds that didn't have the right type of rooms for that sort of thing. They were a funny and generous people, who liked music and copious amounts of _very_ exotic food. Athena enjoyed visiting them every time.

As usual, she was welcomed by one of the numerous attachés: this time a slender, very dark-skinned, elderly man, with the usual bald head and deep red eyes of the indigenous people of Alpha Centauri VII. The man wore the customary widely-cut, brightly coloured gown that counted as very fashionable among his people and delicate golden bracelets on his upper arms. At first Athena found Centaurian fashion a bit strange, but she'd grown so used to it meanwhile that she barely noticed the flashy clothes.

"Emissary!" the old man said with a graceful bow. "Welcome again. Miss Palamas has just arrived and is waiting in one of the lesser conference rooms. May we offer refreshments?"

"Just some fruit juice, thank you," Athena said politely. Only once had she been careless enough to accept the extremely spicy Centaurian snacks. Her taste buds had needed days to recover.

The old man gave her a look that was positively mischievous.

"Learning through experience, aren't we?" he asked with twinkling eyes.

"It was a short but painful lesson," Athena replied with dignity, but she could barely hold her laughter back.

"Those are the best and most lasting ones," the old man assured her, then he opened a door on the left. "This way, please."

Smiling at the old man's antics, Athena followed him down a short corridor that led them to one of the "lesser conference rooms" as her guide had promised. For a _lesser_ room it was a fairly big chamber, furnished only with a long, low table surrounded by beautifully carved, wooden benches. As a rule, Centaurians weren't big at furniture. Among themselves, they usually preferred low divans or just pillows strewn all over the floor. But, being a generous people, they made some allowances for their visitors' sake.

Athena had been introduced to Lt. Palamas at the grand reception, more than two yahrens earlier, when the _Galactica_ had met the _Enterprise_ for the first time. She could still vaguely remember a pretty, blue-eyed blonde, wearing the meanwhile outdated, ultra-short blue tunic of a female science officer.

That vague memory hadn't prepared her for the vision of a pale gold-haired goddess, wrapped in an artfully arranged, shimmering turquoise piece of silk, which was waiting for her in the conference room. The dark blue meandering pattern that seamed the iridescent fabric gave the unusual garment a dynamic line that wound from the woman's shoulder down to the floor. Her pearly white upper body was left all but free, save from a strategically placed fold of the silk that covered her bosom in a vertical curve, falling forward over her right shoulder again. By the best effort, Athena couldn't see what kept the gravity-defying piece in place, unless, of course, it was glued to the skin of its wearer. One long, wavy flaxen tress was pulled free from the beehive hairdo and fell over the woman's bare left shoulder.

It was the single most artistic dress Athena had ever seen, and also the most provocative and daring, although the noble ladies of Caprica and some other colonies hadn't exactly been shy in that department. She owned the one or other rather… revealing dress herself, but none of them would have been able to wear a garment like this with such independent self-confidence, not even Cassiopeia in her prime. She suspected that not many women from the various worlds of the Federation would be able to pull _that_ trick, either. Apparently, being an aristocrat from Alpha III was something special.

Carolyn Palamas rose from the bench to great her, raising her hand in a somewhat arcane gesture that must have been custom on her homeworld.

"_Siress_ Athena," she said with a friendly smile. "How good to see you again! Haven't we met on the great reception of Commander Adama aboard the _Rising Star_? You came in the company of Mr. Spock, if I remember correctly."

"Indeed," Athena nodded, "but unless I'm mistaken, you were following a… different dress code back then."

Palamas laughed quietly. "Don't let it bother you; this is just a tool. A very useful one, if I may add. It renders most male diplomats to confused heaps of hormones."

"And makes female ones mad with jealousy, which is just as useful for you to keep the upper hand," Athena added. Palamas laughed again.

"That is true. The only ones you should never try this trick with are Vulcans and Deltans."

"Why Deltans?" Athena asked. "Vulcans, I can understand. They are all cold fish and therefore completely immune against female viles. But Deltans…"

"… are so much better in this particular game that you'd never stand a chance against them," Palamas explained. "Not even Vulcans can withstand Deltan pheromones; not without conscious efforts. We humans would be utterly helpless. It's better not to start a battle that's doomed to be lost from the beginning."

She gestured towards the bench. "Have a seat, please. There's no need for formalities between us. We've both served as military officers; that allows us to be honest… when there are no witnesses, that is."

Athena found the other woman's bluntness refreshing, after having walked on eggshells around other Federation diplomats – not to mention the councillors of the _Quorum_ – for the last two yahrens. She told so. Palamas shrugged; her garment, defying every single law of physics, remained firmly in place nonetheless. That alone must have required _days_ of training, Athena mused.

"I can deal with the diplomats in their tiny sandboxes," Palamas said dismissively. "But since we are trying to actually get something done here, I thought we could – how do your pilots say it? – we could cut the felgercarb and go right down to business."

The vernacular of dirty-mouthed pilots coming from such an exquisite vision was so… ambivalent that Athena had to laugh, whether she wanted or not.

"I'm all for saving time," she assured her host. "And since you were the one who asked for this meeting, I assume there is a specific problem you wanted to discuss with me."

Palamas nodded, her expression growing very serious all of a sudden.

"My government has completed the first phase of our support programme considering New Gemini," she explained. "We've done the basic work; from now on, the Deltans are taking over the details. That has freed a lot of potential on our side, which we'd be willing to use on other worlds of the New Colonies."

"Do you need help with choosing he right candidate?" Athena asked in surprise.

"In a sense, yes," Palamas admitted. "Our architects have visited several of the New Colonies, but I need some… Insider information before we make our choice. I hoped that you could be of assistance, as you're representing the entire sector, not any particular world."

"Well, I certainly can give it a try," Athena said, a bit doubtfully. "Which ones are the candidates?"

"None of the planets still being terraformed," Palamas replied. "We are much better at the next phase, when actual cities are being built. So, the choice would be between Scorpia, Piscera, Taura and Aquarius." She spared herself the addition _New_ before each name; it was obvious anyway.

"You haven't even considered New-Caprica?" Athena asked, a bit stung.

Palamas shook her head. "No, you're already getting enough help from Earth and Ardana. The Federation isn't interested in creating a… an imbalance of power and wealth between your worlds. That could only lead to civil unrest, and _that_ would be unfortunate, for both you and us."

Athena had to admit that this was very true. The inner competition between the individual tribes and their respective homeworlds had never completely ceased till the Destruction, and now that the not always voluntary bonds had been loosened a bit, the danger that it might break loose again was all too real. There had been complaints from the smaller tribes that had got the less habitable worlds already, and things could get worse any time.

"Is that the reason why you haven't considered New Leonis either?" she asked.

"Partly," Palamas admitted. "The other reason was the person of the Leonid councillor."

"_Sire_ Uri?" Athena pulled a face. "Yeah, we were all a bit shocked that the Leonids have re-elected him. But you must understand that – next to the late President Adar – he used to be one of the great architects of the Renaissance Days. As the governor of Caprica, he created a series of public works projects, revitalizing the planet's infrastructure. He also contributed to the Colonies' leading art institutions. Now, in these days of peace and rebirth, people remember these achievements, and hope that he'd be able to repeat that performance, I guess."

"He _has_ done a lot of ground work on New Leonis," Palamas agreed, "and he seems to find the most useful allies, all the time. I still have my doubts about his true motivations, though."

"You and me and my father and a lot of other people," Athena nodded. "The simple folk, however, thinks in simple terms. _Sire_ Uri gives them what they desperately need, and they are willing to forget his less than… glorious deeds during our flight for that."

"In a way, it's understandable," Palamas said thoughtfully, "but he really doesn't need _our_ support to defend his own interest. Now, what can you tell me about _Sire_ Anton? I understand he and your father used to be friends."

"_Used_ to be is the key word here," Athena said. "They were more allies than friends anyway. To be perfectly honest, it was my mother who dabbed in politics, and she kept the contact with _Sire_ Anton alive all the time. That came handy for my father when Anton became President, but he always said that while Anton is a very intelligent and determined man, he's too much of a politician to be completely trusted."

"Could that be the reason why he didn't get re-elected as President?" Palamas asked.

Athena thought about that for a micron, then she shook her head.

"No, I don't believe so," she said. "I rather think people wanted someone new, someone… someone _younger_ for this new beginning. A fresh start, if you want to see it that way. President Darius is not only a poet and brings thus the hope of a new Renaissance; he's also the son of one of our greatest war heroes: the late Commander Devon, leader of the Fourth Fleet, who'd been against any negotiations with the Cylons till the bitter end. Just like my father."

"So, this is a bit of basking in reflected glory, isn't it?" Palamas asked.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Athena replied with a shrug. "Basically, Darius is a good man – even though perhaps a little naïve. That could be dangerous later; I'm sure some of the old _Quorum_ will try to influence him from the background. It all depends on how he chooses his advisors, I guess."

"He's from Aquarius, isn't he?" at Athena's nod, Palamas continued thoughtfully. "If we chose New Aquarius as our next project, we could also offer the President political advisors. I'm sure he'd find them… useful."

"You should be careful with him," Athena warned. "He might be naïve, but he's certainly no fool, and he's a very stubborn man. He won't allow anyone to manipulate him… and he might prove shrewd enough to realize when he's being manipulated."

"We're not planning to do anything like that," Palamas replied calmly. "But politics are a way of art, just like poetry – art that one needs to learn. I'll try to make President Darius see the advantages of that."

"If you visit him in _that_ gown, he'll most certainly see the light," Athena laughed.

"Like I said: it's a very useful tool," Palamas replied with a grin. "But actually, I've studied the history of Aquarius a bit, and I think our people would get along with the Aquarians well enough."

"They're a fairly mixed society, and thus more open for new ideas," Athena agreed. "They were the ones to take in the few hundred survivors from the Delphian Empire, after all, and they even managed to co-exist with them without serious problems. Which, considering the peculiarities of Delphian culture, is _not_ a small feat."

"Delphians… aren't they the green-skinned lizards with those metallic-looking feathers on their heads?" Palamas asked. Athena nodded.

"They are. They used to be great artists and architects before the Cylons wiped out their Empire, but trust me: they're not the easiest people to live with."

"I'll take your word for that," Palamas grinned again. "Very well then, I'll suggest my government to choose New Aquarius for our next campaign. Afterwards, we can always move on to Piscera or Taura."

"Not Scorpia, though?" Athena asked with a sly wink.

"Somehow," Palamas replied dryly, "I imagine that _Sire_ Anton will be more than capable of getting enough support for their planet without our help. Plus, this will spare me the necessity to deal with his right-hand woman, that Captain Sheba – which is definitely a bonus."

"Oh, yes," Athena shuddered involuntarily. "You have no idea what a bonus it is. If I imagine that my brother barely escaped from getting Sealed with her, I could still get indigestion."

"Well, we can't have _that_, now can we?" Palamas smiled and rose from the bench. "I know something that would help you to more pleasant thoughts. Have you ever been in a Centaurian bath? A real one, as thy have it back on their homeworld?"

"No, but…"

"No buts! Whoever needs to contact you, can reach you there. You look like someone in need to be thoroughly pampered, and a Centaurian bathhouse is the perfect place for that."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3 Lieutenant Doe

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

The description of fizzbin loosely follows the one given in the 2nd season Star Trek episode "A Piece of the Action".

Admiral Cartwright (Star Trek VI) and _Sire_ Solon were played by the same actor, Brock Peters. Hence the joke.

* * *

**Chapter 03 – Lieutenant Doe**

Omega wasn't the gambling type, had never been, but even he'd come to realize that a visit in the _Carillon Bar_, on the entertainment level of Semiramis, was usually worth his time. The establishment was owned by a high-class Gemoni _socialator_ by the name of Arsinoe, who'd used to be the shrewdest businesswoman of her native planet, and thus one could watch the wealthy circles of the New Colonies in action. Which was a useful thing to do if one wanted to know what was going on behind the scenes.

It wasn't a cheap place, for sure, but not so expensive that even mid-level Federation officials couldn't have afforded a drink or two, even though more usually would have been beyond their purse. As for the gambling tables, one could simply stand and watch the games – usually card games, as Arsinoe despised the more common chancery machines, saying that they destroyed the atmosphere. There were enough other gambling places on the _Arcade_ – one visited Arsione's establishment as much for making contacts as for the gambling itself. And this mingling between Federation officials with influential businessmen and politicians from the New Colonies was what Omega wanted to keep tab on. Despite the smooth surface, political situation was brooding on the respective worlds as well as between them. One could never have enough information.

It turned out he was not the only one with that particular interest. Commodore Hunter, the military governor of the Starbase, also often spent some time in the _Carillon Bar_. As she'd explained Omega at the beginning of their working relationship, there were more than enough shadowy businesspeople from various Federation worlds who needed some careful… _supervision_.

So, after Aggie had been left to the tender mercies of the school principal – not that she'd have been frightened or anything, she was used to deal with people working in childcare – Hunter had invited Omega to meet her in the _Carillon Bar_. She had her own, small table in one of the far corners, where they could talk, undisturbed by the music played in the foreground. They both valued these unofficial meetings, where they could discuss more freely Federation politics, the matters of border defence, exchange information about new technological development and a great deal of different topics, including family and children. Hunter came from a far-away human colony, originally populated by the descendants of Hopi Indians, where group marriage was the norm and people lived in an almost symbiotic relationship with nature. Omega, being a thoroughly urban person himself, found that fascinating.

"The crowd isn't too big tonight," he judged, eyeing the small groups of gamblers who surrounded the various card tables. They were mostly human, save from a few who looked like oversized felixes, with either reddish or shiny black fur covering their sleek, limber bodies. He'd met intelligent felinoids before, but not in such numbers. They had been a dying species back in the Old Colonies and had been completely eradicated by the Destruction.

Hunter looked around, too, and nodded.

"It's still early," she explained. "The true nightcrawlers won't appear before midnight. I prefer this time, though. One can't have a sensible conversation when the party is in full swing here."

"But isn't that the time when the worst perpetrators do their business as well?" Omega asked.

Hunter shook her head. "No, those are professional gamblers who live and die for chancery – mostly die, I'd say, sooner or later. Security keeps a constant eye on them, of course, but they're very predictable: the unfortunate victims of their own addiction. No, the really big deals are made during the calmer, quieter times. The big players don't want to draw attention."

"Which is why you show presence here frequently, isn't it?" Omega grinned.

"Of course," Hunter agreed cheerfully. "It makes them… uncomfortable. I like them uncomfortable. They're more prone to making mistakes that way."

Omega nodded thoughtfully. Hunter had indeed a natural gift for intimidation.

"Don't you mind your border guards gambling in here?" he asked then, nodding towards one of the card tables, where half a dozen black-clad pilots from the border patrol were playing a highly complicated game, the rules of which seemed to make no sense at all. They used a standard Terran deck of cards, but from what Omega could catch from their sometimes heated conversation, the rules changed on certain days of the secton. Expressions like _half-fizzbin_ or _sralk_ flew back and forth over the table.

Hunter laughed. "Oh, them! They're just trying to actually _play_ fizzbin – which is virtually impossible, of course."

"Is it?" Omega asked in surprise. "I was told that it's played on the planet Beta Antares IV."

"Actually," Hunter explained, grinning, "A game named fizzbin never really existed. Jim Kirk fabricated it to confuse the guards on Sigma Iota II and to make it possible for the landing party to escape. That's why the rules are so terribly complicated that no one could figure out how to play the game to begin with."

"Such little details never bothered a true gambler, though," Omega began to see where it was all going.

"No, Hunter agreed. "For the last five years or so, every professional gambler in the Federation – or outside of it, for that matter – has tried to produce a working set of rules for the game. So far, no one has succeeded. But it's highly entertaining to watch them try."

With that, Omega couldn't argue, and so they listened to the players for a while. The discussion among them could only be described as… arcane.

"You see, it's a bit complicated," a huge, blonde-maned human whom Omega recognized as Ilya Petrenko, formerly Hunter's board gunner on the _Aerfen_, nowadays the commander of the border patrol. "Each player gets six cards, except for the player on the dealer's right, who gets seven."

"Why the one on the right?" another pilot, apparently new to the game, asked.

Petrenko shrugged. "Those are the rules. Pay attention! The second card is turned up, except on Tuesdays."

"On Tuesdays," the other pilot repeated with glassy eyes.

"Mm-hmm," Petrenko nodded. "Or, as Doe would call it for some reason, on Secondday."

"Oh, look what you got!" the third pilot, obviously Doe, with a lieutenant's straps on the sleeves of his black uniform, said. "Two jacks! You got a half-fizzbin already."

The newbie pilot, who was obviously played for a fool, tried to concentrate very hard. "So, does this mean I need another jack?"

"No," Petrenko cried, alarmed. "If you got another jack, why, you'd have a sralk."

"A… sralk?" the poor newbie was utterly confused.

"Yes," the pilot named Doe nodded gravely. "You'd be disqualified. You need a king and a deuce, except at night, when you'd need a queen and a 4."

"Except at night?" the newbie seemed to suspect that he was being led on, but the other two looked at him with completely blank faces.

"Right," Petrenko said, and then he peeked into the hand of the newbie in delight. "Oh, look at that! You've got another jack! How lucky you are! How wonderful for you!"

"Haven't you said that getting another jack would get me disqualified?" the newbie tried to get his thoughts straight but with no result. The pilot named Doe laid a calming arm around his shoulders.

"That was different," he explained patiently. "If you didn't get another jack, if you'd gotten a king, why, then, you'd get another card, except when it's dark, you'd give it back."

"If it were dark on Tuesday?" the newbie had completely lost his lead already.

"Right," Doe nodded. "But what you're after is a royal fizzbin, as it seems to me, and the odds in getting a royal fizzbin…"

"Oh, c'mon, Doe," Petrenko complained, "you know as well as I do that getting a royal fizzbin is astronomically impossible."

"No more impossible than a perfect pyramid," Doe riposted. "All you need is a good system."

"There's no system in fizzbin at all," Petrenko said patiently. "There's not _supposed_ to be one, you know. It's been _created_ to be chaotic and completely unpredictable. It's the ultimate game of chance."

"_Every_ game has a system," the other pilot insisted. "You just need to work it out, that's all."

Petrenko howled with laughter and slapped the smaller man (well, small compared with _him_ anyway, but few people could have messed themselves with him where sheer size was considered) on the back.

"That's our Doe! Always looking for the perfect system," he turned back to the newbie. "Don't listen to him. The odds for getting a royal fizzbin _are_ astronomical, believe me. Now, for the last card. We'll call it a kronk…"

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

The rest of the discussion was lost for Omega, as he was preoccupied by some nagging familiarity that he couldn't give a name yet. There was something in the voice of the pilot named Doe that reminded him of something – or someone, he only needed to figure out what or whom. He turned his seat to take a closer look.

The man on Petrenko's side was of middle height and of slender built, his hair so short-cropped that it would have been hard to guess its colour. But his short beard was dark gold, so he _had_ to be blond, originally. Said beard concealed his features a great deal, but the bright blue eyes and the killer cheekbones came to full effect nonetheless. He was a very handsome man, but behind his jovial façade there was something that gave Omega the chills. Those crystal clear eyes had what old warriors used to call _the thousand yahrens glare_ – they were the eyes of someone who'd known death… and probably worse.

"Commodore," the colonel asked quietly, so that they wouldn't be overheard. "This pilot of yours, this Lieutenant Doe – who _is_ he? Where is he from?"

"That's a good question," Hunter replied thoughtfully. She, too, had lowered her voice, so that it was barely above whisper. "We don't know. He's been found somewhere on the lowest levels of the Base, almost two years ago. He was in a desolate shape and couldn't remember anything but his given name: Gabriel. We suspect that he'd been held captive somewhere and severely mistreated, including having given mind-altering drugs."

"For interrogation purposes?" Omega guessed.

"That, or out of simple cruelty," Hunter answered with a shrug. "We're on the verge of unexplored space here. The lowest levels are full of people who'd come here with high hopes – and when these hopes failed to come true, they had nowhere else to go. We're the last station here – the ultimate terminus for many people. Some of them are even good people, they just had a lot of bad luck. That happens, unfortunately."

"And is there nothing that could be done for those unlucky ones?" Omega asked. Hunter shrugged again.

"We are trying… but it's not easy. You see, Colonel, we might have come a long way from the Dark Ages, but human society is still far from perfect. The Federation is a useful alliance, but it's no paradise, either. The unlucky and the poor – they'll always be with us, as well as the heroes and the gamblers and those who make profit of the misery of other people. That's the nature of the beast. It would be naïve to think that we can change it – not for a long time yet, anyway."

"How comes then that such a homeless person, and one with a complete memory loss at that, could become a lieutenant of your border patrol?" Omega asked.

"After the doctors patched him up a bit – which took them moths, let me tell you – he asked for something to do in exchange," Hunter explained. "He showed some talent with computers and other electronic equipment, and so we let him work in the shuttle bay, for food and a small closed to sleep in. One day, one of our Tennet-5 hunters had some engine problem. He offered his help and the pilot took him out for a test flight. The engines died on them halfway back, but Doe somehow managed to bring the machine back… we still don't know how. In any case, we had his piloting skills tested afterwards, and he turned out a better pilot than any other we'd already had. So we offered him the job, he accepted – and we haven't regretted that decision to the present day. He's good, really good."

"But why do you call him Lieutenant Doe?" Omega asked. "Didn't you say he won't remember anything?"

"Not much anyway," Hunter admitted. "It's an old Earth tradition to use John Doe as a placeholder name for a male party in a legal action or legal discussion whose true identity is unknown or is intended to be. The custom dates back to the reign of Edward III, the King of England, as Lt. M'Botabwe so generously explained to me. Our Lieutenant Doe can at least remember his given name, so we christened him Gabriel Doe, so that we can at least create an official file for him."

"Still, why make him a lieutenant?" Omega frowned. "Didn't that cause problems with the other pilots, who've earned their rank through years of service?"

Hunter shrugged. "He's just a field lieutenant. It's general custom by the border patrols that all pilots are lieutenants – sounds better when they have to deal with agitated ship's commaners. They aren't part of Starfleet anyway, so we can affors small irregularities," she gave Omega a curious look. "Why all the questions? Do you happen to know the man?"

"I'm not sure," Omega said slowly. "He has a certain… likeness to one of our ace pilots that we have lost under… unknown circumstances."

"Well, he certainly could be one of your people," Hunter agreed. "He already spoke Standard when we found him, but he'd been living in the underbelly of the Base at least half a year by then. He definitely does have the same accent as you. When did that pilot of yours get lost?"

"Before we crossed the singularity that brought us into your corner of the universe," Omega replied grimly.

"How could he have ended up here as well, then?" Hunter wondered. Omega shook his head.

"He could _not_. It's impossible. Vipers can't make suchl ong flights through deep space without refuelling. He was sent out to deep patrol, about a sectare… a _month_," he corrected himself, "before we found the anomaly. He never returned from that patrol."

"Not that you'd know," Hunter said.

"Had he returned, I _would_ know," Omega replied. "I used to be the bridge officer of the _Galactica_ at that time – every launch and return ran through my duty station."

"Then he must have found a way to follow you," Hunter guessed.

"No," Omega said. "That's just not possible."

"If I have learned anything in my long years of duty, it's the fact that virtually nothing is impossible in deep space," Hunter said thoughtfully. "Is there any way to confirm his identity? Do you have records from your warriors in the databases?"

"Of course," Omega nodded. "I can download Lt. Starbuck's – that was our pilot's name – medical file from the _Galactica_'s crew manifest. We can compare them with the ones your doctors made of this Lieutenant Doe. A DNA-test could bring some light into the issue. I can do this quickly and discretely while Aggie is getting tested for school."

Hunter gave him a sharp look. "You don't want to make your suspicion public just yet, do you?" she asked.

"No," Omega said. "That man over there does have a more than fleeting likeness to Starbuck, but to my best knowledge, he can't _be_ Starbuck. And if he's not… Starbuck had a lot of friends who were badly shaken by his loss and are, in fact, still grieving for him. It would be unencessarily cruel to make them false hopes, only to destroy those hopes again."

"I see your point," Hunter agreed. "But what if the impossible _has_ happened, and our Lieutenant Doe is, in fact, your Lieutenant Starbuck?"

"In that case, I'd be even more cautious," Omega said slowly. "That man there might look and gamble like Starbuck, but his eyes are dead – and he's lost his memory. Things like that don't happen without a very good reason. Our Starbuck was the most resilient man I've ever met. He always bounced back onto his feet, no matter what. By Hades, he even came back from Cylon captivity unharmed! For him to become that… that _person_ over there, he'd have to go through unspeakable things. If he _is_ Starbuck, that means whoever had held him captive, must have broken him thoroughly. I don't think he'd wish to remember again – or his friends would want to know."

"I understand the sentiment," Hunter said, "but what if he didn't seek refuge in amnesia instinctively? What if his mind was wiped clear deliberately, because he'd seen or heard something he wasn't supposed to? The medical tests show that he'd been tortured, for an extended period of time and very thoroughly. If he hadn't simply fallen in the hands of some sick pervert, his jailers wanted information. It might be of great importance to learn _what_ that information was. Lives can depend on the return of his memory… _if_ he is the one you believe he is."

"Perhaps," Omega allowed reluctantly.

"You are concerned about hie mental well-being, which is a very noble gesture," Hunter continued, her voice still low but urgent. "But consider this: the way he is now, he might live out his life without ever learning who he truly is. Would you wish that for a friend?"

"If he _is_ Starbuck, that would be nothing new for him," Omega pointed out. "He'd lived with a memory loss all his life. He couldn't remember a thing from his childhood – not even his true name."

"Isn't that strange?" Hunter said. "Lieutenant Doe can't remember anythong after the age of about six. His cihldhood memories are quite vivid, or so the doctors say, although he can't put names to the places or people he rmemembers. The only name he knows is his own."

Omega's eyebrows climbed up to his hairline. "Could that be a coincidence?"

"Theoretically?" Hunter asked, although Omega's had been a rhetorical question and they both knew it. "Of course it could. Coincidences happen all the time. This particular coincidence, however, seems just a bit too… _convenient_ for my taste."

"You are thinking the drugs," Omega siad slowly. "While they blocked his memories of the immediate past, they might have removed the block from his childhood memories at the same time, yes?"

Hunter nodded. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"How should _I know_?" Omega riposted, his frustration very evident. "I'm not a doctor!"

"Neither am I," Hunter answered, "but for this, you don't need a degree. Just some good, old-fashioned logic."

"You think so?" Omega was less than sure about it.

Hunter nodded. "Look. A child had gone through a terrible trauma and blocked his memories in order to survive. Decades later, as a grown man, he went through another trauma, a just as horrible one, or perhaps even worse, and his memories were blocked again, either by himself, or, what's more likely, by the drugs. But no human being can survive with a completely blank mind. So, his subconscious reached out for something to hold on, something safe. Most people find childhood memories safe and comforting. So the mind worked itself through the first blockade and laid at least _some_ of those memories open again. Our man has found a name and an identity, and that probably saved his life and his sanity."

"If he _is_ Starbuck," Omega repeated with emphasis.

"If he's not, checking out his background won't do him any harm," Hunter said.

"Agreed," Omega said, after a moment of consideration. "So, how are we going to do this?"

"You can establish a link to the _Galactica_ from my office," Hunter offered. "I assume you _can_ download information from the databases through a secured channel without anyone knowing which files you've accessed, can't you?"

"Of course," Omega replied with a faint smile. "I'm the executive officer, after all. The only one with a higher security clearance is Apollo, and he can't even come close to _my_ familiarity with the board systems. Having served as a flag officer all my life does have its advantages."

"Is that the same sentiment as 'rank has its privileges', which we're _never_ supposed to misuse?" Hunter asked with biting irony. "No, don't answer that. It's enough if I know where and when _I have_ to bend the rules to make things work. When are you supposed to fetch your kid?"

Omega glanced at his wrist chrono. "I still have three cen… three _hours_ left. And she'll contact me anyway when she's done. She has a wrist communicator on her."

"Good," Hunter rose. "Come to my office in, say, forty minutes. I have to make a few calls, but by then, I'll have all the data that we have on Lieutenant Doe ready for you… not that it would be much, mind you, but better than nothing."

With that, she nodded and left, without wasting her time with goodbyes. After all, they were going to see each other in less than an hour.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Omega spent the next half an hour with watching the ongoing fizzbin game between the pilots of the border patrol. The rules – if they, indeed, existed in the first place anywhere else but the players' imagination – hadn't become any clearer in this time. On the contrary, they seemed to grow new, twisted tentacles with every new round. He didn't think he'd ever be able to understand the game – or, indeed, see its attraction. Quite frankly, it was utter nonsense.

But he wasn't really interested in the game anyway, so not understanding it didn't bother him at all. It was Lieutenant Doe he was watching, trying to find more similarities between the man without memory and the long-lost Starbuck. More important similarities than just the gambling, the blond hair and the incredibly blue eyes.

He wasn't sure he could see any. Sure, the beard didn't make it easier to figure out the lines of that lean face, but the man seemed yahrens older than Starbuck should have been, and the short-cropped hair made the shape of that blond head look very different. There were deep lines around the man's mouth and in the corners of his eyes, and his body language completely lacked Starbuck's easy-going openness.

No, Omega decided, there was no way this man could be Starbuck. There were similarities, yes, but those were superficial, and just how many people who didn't have the slightest blood relation did look startlingly alike? One only needed to think of Admiral Cartwright and _Sire_ Solon, who looked like identical twins, despite the fact that they hailed from two different peoples.

This _had_ to be another such genetic coincidence. What else could it be? Sometimes complete strangers looked alike. That was all.

Why, then, was he trying so desperately to persuade himself that his first instinct had been wrong? Why did he feel a sudden bout of dark foreboding rise in his mind?

He shook his head in disgust. He needed to stop. This was counterproductive. He had to leave this place and go somewhere else where he could think clearly. Besides, the forty microns – _minutes_, he corrected himself absent-mindedly – were almost over. Hunter expected him in her office any time now.

He rose to leave. As he walked by the card table on his way out, Lieutenant Doe looked up from his cards unexpectedly. His bleak but very vigilant eyes searched Omega's face warily.

"Do I know you, sir?" he asked. His voice, too, was achingly familiar, but deeper and rougher than Starbuck's had been.

"No, I don't think so, Lieutenant," Omega replied slowly.

For a moment, there was doubt in those bright, suspicious eyes, then the man turned back to his cards with a shrug.

"So, you're interested in the game, then?"

"Not really," Omega admitted, "although its chaotic nature does have a certain fascination. But I'm not much of a gambler anyway. The only game I ever play is pyramid, and that, too, happens rarely enough."

"Pyramid?" Now there was slight amusement in that semi-familiar voice. "We should play a game or two together, if you fell like it. I promise not to filch you too badly."

"I can't," Omega said apologetically. "Not right now, that is. But I'll be on the Base for the next few days. Another time, perhaps."

The lieutenant inclined his head in agreement. "Another time," he repeated. "You know where to find me."

"Yes," Omega said, after a moment of stunned silence. "Yes, I do."

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

On his way to Hunter's office, he was still pondering over the unexpected invitation. What might have moved Lieutenant Doe to invite him to a game of pyramid – well, to make contact with him in the first place? They'd never met before… or had they?

Well, he _had_ been watching the man all afternoon. Perhaps Lieutenant Doe had felt his eyes on himself – battle-hardened veterans who'd been to Hades and back always could tell when they were being watched. It was an instinct – the instinct of a hunted predator that had learned how to survive.

Perhaps the man was simply curious. He must have gotten used to the inquisitive stares, but he didn't know Omega, so he wanted to check him out. Or perhaps he hoped that Omega had met him before and could tell him who he truly was?

No. There had been no hope in those eyes at all. Just tolerant amusement and mild curiosity. Perhaps a little suspicion, too. After all, the man couldn't know for sure that the people who'd so severely mistreated him in his now-forgotten past weren't still out there, looking for a chance to finish the job.

And Omega had to agree with Hunter that _that_ was a disconcerting thought. Anyone who was ready to subject a human being to severe and prolonged torture, just to keep their secrets safe, couldn't be up to anything good. Whether he liked or not, they _needed_ to reveal the secret of Lieutenant Doe's identity, one way or another.

The question if Lieutenant Doe was, indeed, Starbuck or not, was of secondary importance in this context.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4 Discrete Investigations

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

For visuals: Bridge Officer Kalliope Is "played" by Szilvia Naray, who'd have been Colonel Athena in the trailer of Richard Hatch's never realized movie "Battlestar _Galactica_ – The Second Coming". The new personnel of the _Galactica_ is generally borrowed from that trailer, in order to stay as close to canon as possible. Other such characters my appear later on in this story, or in the further episodes of the "Lost Years" series.

Lt. Commander Anderson comes from the unfilmed Star Trek script "Deadlock" and is "played" by actor Terence Knox (best known from "Tour of Duty"). He, too, will have important appearances in later stories.

* * *

**Chapter 04 – Discrete Investigations**

Omega rode the turbolift down to Operations – the discus-shaped centerpiece of the Starbase – in the exact middle of which Hunter's office was situated. Of course, Operations was a lot more than just the office of the Base commander. It was the heart and the brains of the entire station.

For starters, it had easily the size of a Cylon basestar's upper section, and it was divided in three levels. The lowest one served as the central shuttleport – the same one the _Galactica_ shuttle had docked in mere centares earlier – the middle one as the so-called "battle bridge", from which the defence grid was operated, and the upper one as the actual operations centre – the most important part of all.

This was the level where Omega left the turbolift, and he was at once greeted by Hunter's secretary, a felinoid female with a reddish mane and a long, tufted tail. A Caitian, by the looks of her.

"The Commodorrre is alrrready waiting forrr you, Colonel," she purred, hurrying forward to show him the way. She wore the golden uniform of a yeoman from the command section, which matched her own fur nicely.

To Omega's mild surprise, Hunter wasn't alone in her office. Her executive officer, one Lieutenant Commander Anderson was occupying her, and Omega, who'd met the XO a few times before, was once again amazed by the differences between them, wondering how they had managed to work together for yahrens by now.

Hunter, a bronze-skinned, slim woman in her late forties, looked more like a space pirate than a proper Starfleet officer, with her blatant disregard of the dress code. She barely wore a uniform and was widely known as an independent spirit who considered regs as a useful but not necessarily binding rightline. She insisted on her right to bend them when necessary to get things gone.

Anderson, on the other hand, although more than a decade younger, was just as widely known as a sticker to the rules – a bit like Tigh in his time, but more on the bullish side. A heavily built, stocky man with huge shoulders, a broad back, a short neck, thick black hair and the typical mindset of a natural born grunt. Omega didn't know whether the Federation had infantry platoons or not, but if there were any, Lt. Cmdr. Anderson was certainly determined to lead one. It seemed a misunderstanding that someone like him would serve by Starfleet, but life _was_ a bit strange sometimes. And having acquired the rank he could call his own proved that he must have been good at the job.

Hunter looked up from her viewscreen when Omega entered the office.

"Oh, Colonel, good, you're right on time," she gestured at one of the Starfleet-issue seats. "Do join us, please. I've just filled Commander Anderson in about our little… problem."

Omega frowned, not happy with other people getting involved. "Was that truly necessary, Commodore?"

"Of course it was," Hunter replied calmly. "Commander Anderson is my right-hand-men; he's responsible for the safety of this station and its five hundred thousand inhabitants. _If_ our suspicions are justified, he needs to know of any possible dangers that might threaten us."

"Well," Omega said uncomfortably, "right now it's just a personal agenda, looking for a lost pilot of us. I don't want to make this a public issue."

"We won't," Hunter promised. "You can be sure that Commander Anderson would _not_ spread any gossip on the station."

A glance at the stocky, laconic figure on Hunter's side would have reassured anyone about _that_. Lt. Cmdr. Anderson looked about as talkative as a solid limestone rock.

"Besides," Hunter added, "he was present when our constables found Lieutenant Doe."

"I see," Omega said. "Then perhaps you can tell me a few details about that, Commander?"

"We can do better than that," Hunter said. "The civilian constabulary patrols the lower levels of the station regularly, and they always make video records. This is the only way to keep track on the homeless people who live there – not a perfect method, I admit, but better than nothing."

Omega stared at her in surprise. "Are you telling me that you have an actual visual record about our man being found?" he asked.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Hunter acknowledged. "I had Yeoman M'Rroarh look up the record for you, but I must warn you: it's not a pleasant sight."

"Poverty and suffering never are," Omega said. "But I think I need to see this with my own eyes to put together the whole picture for myself. Do you also have records from the man's recovery?"

"Not in the form of a detailed report," Hunter replied, "but we do have medical logs, recorded debriefings, data from his flight tests… that sort of thing, yes. You'll have to spend a couple of hours here if you want to watch them all. I'd rather the records didn't leave my office."

"That's doable," Omega said. "_Siress_ Athena has offered to look after my daughter on this afternoon, so I don't have to hurry. And while I'm at it, I can also arrange for Lieutenant Starbuck's file to be downloaded and transferred here."

"You can use the comm station over there," Hunter gestured towards a well-isolated comm cabin in the background that she used for debriefings with her Starfleet superiors. "It's the most secure one on the entire Base. Now, I've got a station to run – besides, I've already seen the material – but I'd appreciate if you shared with me the results."

"Of course," Omega nodded. "We're in this together."

"Good," Hunter said. "I'll be taking care of some station business then, Yeoman M'Rroarh is a Level One communications expert; she can assist you if necessary."

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

In a geosynchronous orbit above the planet New Caprica, Lt. Kalliope, a slim, quiet Sagittarian woman, enjoyed being in command of the _Galactica_'s bridge enormously. During the last yahrens of the Cylon war as well as the flight, she had worked as a simple bridge technician, with little to no hope for promotion. She hadn't even attended to the Academy, after all, although she _had_ graduated from the prestigious _Sagittarian Institute of Applied Technologies_, and as such counted as one of the best. Her excellent training had made her a real asset on the bridge, catching first Omega's attention, then that of Colonel Tigh, and so she had gradually risen to the rank of a field lieutenant.

After both Tigh and Athena had left the _Galactica_, she practically remained the only experienced bridge officer, aside from Omega himself. She'd been promoted to the rank of a full lieutenant and made the leader of First Watch, practically taking over Omega's job. She could have returned to her own people, help building up New Sagittara, but had chosen to remain with the _Galactica_ instead. The bridge felt more like home to her than any other place in the entire Fleet.

Especially when Omega was on furlong and she got to have the bridge all for herself.

So far, it had been a fairly uneventful day. Giles' return with the overhauled shuttlecraft was the only thing that had broken the monotony, but Kalliope wasn't complaining. She'd had enough action and excitement for several lives during her yahrens of service – she could use a little peaceful boredom. Besides, she was one of those fortunate people who never really got bored. An overactive imagination like hers came handy in quiet duty centares.

She was understandably surprised when Colonel Omega contacted her from the Federation Starbase. And the fact that her commanding officer sounded grimmer than she'd heard him since their arrival here wasn't exactly comforting, either.

"Lieutenant, switch to a secured command channel and listen carefully," Omega ordered. "This is a Code Blue situation, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," she replied crisply, but her hand was shaking as she changed the channels. Code Blue meant that there wasn't immediate danger for the ship – yet! – but the flag officers had received some intel that could _mean_ a lot of trouble, and they were about to check out all eventualities. During which the lower ranks – and especially the civilians – weren't supposed to know what was going on, in case it was a false alert. "You can speak now, Colonel."

"Very well," Omega chose his words very, _very_ carefully. "Lieutenant, I need your help in a… _delicate_ matter. You're the one with the best technical skills aboard the _Galactica_, so you have to do this."

"Do _what_, sir?" Kalliope all but whispered, her heart pounding and her hands getting icy cold. There was apparently something very wrong going on.

"I need you to hack into the medical database," Omega replied bluntly. Medical data were not accessible for anyone but the chief medical officer of the Life Centre. Not even commanding officers were an exception, unless ship's security was at serious risk. And he couldn't assume _that_. Not yet, anyway.

"Sir, I can be stripped from my rank for that and thrown out of Service completely!" Kalliope protested, shocked that the colonel, usually so by-the-book that it almost hurt, would demand something like that from her.

"Not if you follow orders under Code Blue conditions, you can't," Omega answered calmly. "The only one who can get into deep trouble for this is me. And I believe I can justify my actions, should it come to that."

"You _believe_, sir?" Kalliope repeated doubtfully.

"There are no guarantees for anything, you know that, Lieutenant," Omega's voice was coloured by his customary dry humour. "Let that be my concern. You won't be charged for this in any way, I vouch for that."

Kalliope shrugged, although Omega couldn't see that through their audio-only comm link, of course.

"It's your funeral, sir," she said. "What exactly do you want from the database? I'll try to find it for you."

"It would be better if you didn't know," Omega said, "so you won't have to lie in the unlikely case of an investigation. Just create for me an access to the database and patch it through to the comm station I'm calling you from. I'll find what I need myself."

Kalliope froze. Hacking into the medical files was one thing. Transferring sensitive data to an outside comm station was a very different case. One she wasn't sure she'd be comfortable to do.

"Colonel," she said slowly, "if this comes out… Dr. Salik won't be… happy. And the Fleet Commander…"

"I know," Omega said dryly; no one knew Apollo's sometimes volatile temper better than he. "Believe me, I know. So you better take care that nobody catches you."

"I'll try my best, sir," Kalliope paused for a micron, then she decided to ask anyway. "Colonel… is this _really_ necessary?"

"I believe it is, Lieutenant," Omega replied. "But if it makes you feel better about the whole thing, I only need to look up _one_ file – and the person whom it belongs is dead."

"Yeah, it _does_ make me feel a bit better," Kalliope admitted. "But sir, if the person _is_ dead, what do you need their file for?"

There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the connection. So long, indeed, that Kalliope began to doubt that she would get an answer at all. Strictly seen, it was none of her business, after all. She had her orders.

"Let's just say," Omega finally said, "that we've found some… evidence that might raise questions about the… the circumstances of this person's death. If it's just a hoax, a coincidence of unrelated events, no need for anyone else to know… or to tear old wounds open again."

"And if the evidence proves to be genuine?" Kalliope asked, her mind racing through possible scenarios, one more hair-raising than the other.

"In that case we'll be facing the biggest scandal since the Destruction," Omega said grimly. "So be very careful, Lieutenant, and don't get caught. We might be opening a can of crawlers that can't be closed easily again."

"Understood, sir," the whole thing smelled of politics really badly, and Kalliope had always made her first commandment to stay away from politics as far as humanly possible. She wasn't going to change that attitude now. "I'll call you when I'm in."

"No," Omega said. "A call from the _Galactica_ can be traced back. I'll keep this channel open. It's equipped with a military strength scattering device; nobody will be able to find its location, perhaps not even you. I'll be here; just dispatch the link to me."

"Very well, sir," Kalliope sighed. "Good luck."

"Likewise," Omega replied, "and now hurry up!"

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Lieutenant Doe had finished the fizzbin game, having won a week's payment off the newbie pilot and even a few credits from Ilya Petrenko. Which was always a satisfaction, as the Russian was a shrewd and aggressive player. But, as it had been proven multiple times before, there was just no weapon of defence against the infamous Gabriel Doe luck. Not in combat situations, and even less at the card table.

He only wished his luck had worked half as well in other important areas of his life, too.

Being almost completely without memories was a strange way to exist. Logically, he _knew_ that he must have had a life before. The biobeds in the Infirmary calculated her approximate age for thirty-two Standard years, plus-minus one or two. The extensive damage done to his body tissue by slow starvation and prolonged torture had made it impossible to make a more accurate estimate. Human tissue aged faster under extreme circumstances, one of the doctors had explained, and based on the damage done, the circumstances he'd spent at least half a year must have been truly extreme.

When he considered this, he was honestly glad that he couldn't remember. Those memories would have been very painful; he could live without them. But he must have had a life _before_ that, according to his estimated age at east fifteen years or so, in which he must have acquired his technical and piloting skills and learned how to win in chancery against impossible odds. He must have had friends, lovers perhaps, or even a family.

How came that nobody ever missed him?

How had he ended up on the lower levels of the Base, half-starved and neglected, with infected wounds and barely capable of human speech?

The doctors had guessed that he might have been one of the Colonial refugees, as there were no records about him in Federation databases. But the only language he could more or less use when found was Standard, even though he _did_ have a very faint Colonial accent. Besides, there were no people of his estimated age and with his name – well, his given name at least – missing from any of the Colonial ships. And those people kept tab on their own meticulously. So he must have picked up that accent somewhere accidentally. It was barely there, in any case.

Usually, he didn't ponder much about his possible past. His still visible scars – not even Starfleet-issue dermal regenerators could remove all traces, not after his wounds had been festering for months – spoke clearly about some _very_ unpleasant experiences he preferred to remain forgotten. And since nobody had ever asked for him, he had to presume that his friends and his family, assuming he'd had any in the first place, were dead, too. They had probably died under terrible circumstances, which he preferred _not_ to remember, either.

At least he'd landed on his feet, this time. He got to fly a Tennet-5 hunter, even though sometimes his hands, moving on their own, tried to grab for instruments that weren't there; instruments of a very different fighter, most likely. His border patrol uniform bought him respect by default, even though sometimes the colour felt all wrong, the phaser pistol – a heavy, old-fashioned model his comrades kept complaining about all the time – seemed way too light and hung on the wrong place: on his belt, not in a halfter fastened onto his thigh.

Sometimes he felt a little bewilderment when he snatched something with his left hand, as if he'd expected himself to be right-handed, which was ridiculous. People didn't switch their dominant hand just like that – it was somehow connected to the dominant half of the brain, someone had explained him once. It was genetic, not a matter of choice. So, why did he feel using his left hand so wrong sometimes?

He shook his head, trying to free it from the nagging thoughts. He hated thinking about these things – it always resulted in violent headaches. The doctors had warned him about that, which was part of the reason why he hadn't sought professional help with removing his memory blockade.

_Your mind has protected itself from a severe emotional trauma by blocking those memories_, they had said. _Forcing them to the surface before you're ready to remember would be disastrous. There's a chance that they'll resurface on their own, eventually._

That had been two years ago, and the memories hadn't shown any indication to resurface, so far. Not that he really minded. But there were days when something triggered the nagging feeling that he _should_ remember. That he had left some business unfinished that needed to be taken care of.

He wondered what the trigger might have been this time. Usually, it happened during patrol, as if flying – something that had apparently been an integral part of his former life, too – had brought the buried memories closer to the surface. But they hadn't even had a patrol in days. They'd been aboard the station, playing cards all the time.

He came to such an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor that several people couldn't help but bump into him from behind. That was it! The card game! And that tall, elegant, dark-haired man who'd been sitting with Commodore Hunter at her usual table. Watching them – _him_! – during the entire game. He knew they'd been talking about him. He could always feel, and as the "man without memory", he was often the topic of curious conversations. He'd grown accustomed to it.

This time, though, it had been different, somehow. That man – who _had_ it been anyway? – had been watching him with more than just the usual, fleeting interest. And yet he'd denied knowing him when asked.

There was definitely some weird crap going on. The man was one of the Colonial people, according to his accent, and one of the big shots, apparently, or the Commodore wouldn't waste her time on him. The first business of the day was to find out the guy's identity, then.

There were ways to do that. For example, Operations had a file on all the important Colonial folks. Those files were encoded and password-protected, of course. But such minor inconveniences never stopped Gabriel Doe when he wanted something.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Athena had enjoyed her visit in the Centaurian bath very much. Not only the hot, mineral-satiated water, the following massage with scented oil (she never knew she'd had so many kinks in her back!) and the soft music, but also the company of Carolyn Palamas, who proved to be intelligent, well-informed – and generally great fun to be with.

The two of them had quite a few things in common, besides being both daughters of patrician houses, military officers and diplomats. Their tastes in music seemed to run in similar directions, and as both were interested in history and sports, there was never a lack of topics to discuss.

They'd changed into more comfortable outfits after the visit in the bathhouse, collected Aggie from school and found a nice restaurant to have dinner. After having tried several specialities many adults wouldn't dare to touch, Aggie finally remembered to call her father and chatted with him excitedly for a few centons. It seemed that she felt confident about her first round of tests and was looking forward to go to school with children from many different planets.

"Perhaps I'll go to an art school later," she told the two women dreamily. "One of the teachers, an Andorian, liked my drawings a lot. Or I'll study journalism and become a TriVid star."

"Lords beware," Athena shuddered involuntarily.

"Why?" the girl asked. "Newspeople get to travel a lot, see things nobody else gets to se, _and_ they are famous. Boxey's Mum was a newswoman, too, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was," Athena replied gloomily. "A real star all right."

She wasn't going to say anything bad about her late sister-in-law. The woman was dead, for Sagan's sake, and her brother had loved her, but… The truth was, Serina had been a Celebrity, with a capital C, and behaved like the star she had been in every single micron during the short time Athena had known her. And while Athena had no reason to like Cassiopeia – there had been that little matter about Starbuck between the two of them – she had to admit that the blonde _socialator_'s instincts had been deadly accurate concerning Serina, who'd been shrewd, manipulative and eminently determined to defend her own interests.

She'd nailed Apollo in the first micron they'd met, to ensure the safety of her son – and a much better position for herself than she could have gotten as a simple refugee, even if she'd managed to get acquaintanted to one of the Councillors. Perhaps she _had_ loved Apollo, Athena didn't want to doubt that (for the sake of her own emotional comfort), but she'd sure as Hades used both her own undeniable beauty and the cuteness of Boxey to spin Apollo into an impenetrable cocoon like some sort of spider queen.

She'd charmed her way into the Viper squadron, despite barely being able to fly a shuttlecraft to begin with. She'd managed to take Starbuck's place as Apollo's wingman – _Starbuck's_, who'd been the best pilot of the whole Fleet, Apollo's best friend since their Academy yahrens and the best guarantee for Apollo's survival in battle. And yet the Commander never made a move against that change.

Serina had also gotten Apollo to Seal with her at a time when they all thought Starbuck dead and when Apollo had been grieving and vulnerable. At a time like that, when the Fleet had taken up the desperate task to cross the starless Void, just to escape their Cylon pursuers, Serina had insisted on the biggest, shiniest Sealing the Fleet had ever seen, before the eyes of everyone – _and_ the IFB cameras – so that nobody could be in any doubt about her staking her territory.

_About the dead, speak only good things_, an old saying warned, but after three yahrens, Athena still couldn't think of a single good thing about Serina. So she usually wrapped herself in silence when her brother's late wife (Wife? What wife? They'd known each other for just a few sectons and were barely married for a couple of days!) came up. Like now.

Aggie, her heart and mind too full with exciting new things, hadn't noticed that Athena had fallen in silence. She chatted away happily about the tests she'd taken, the people she'd met and the thinks she'd be doing in the near future, while keeping half an eye on the vid screens broadcasting various sports events – she was generally having a grand time, after two yahrens of simplicity in their New Caprican home. The blue eyes of Carolyn Palamas, however, were measuring Athena with renewed curiosity.

"Boxey," she said. "Isn't he your brother's kid?"

Athena nodded. "His adopted son, yeah. He kept the boy after his wife died – a decision he never regretted. None of us ever did. Boxey can be annoying sometimes, but all in all, he's a nice kid. Even though my father does his best to spoil him rotten. Must have come after his father."

"And his mother… you said she was a newswoman?" Palamas asked.

"More than just that – she was a _celebrity_," Athena spoke the word as an insult. "One of those really big stars, before the Destruction, I mean. She was incredibly beautiful, I'll give her that, and she did vulnerable very convincingly. Most men fell for that performance in a micron."

"Not you, though," Palamas guessed with a smile. Athena shook her head.

"Nah, I could see clearly what she was up to. How well aware she was of her own beauty and how well she could use it as a weapon. And she had contacts, too, and was willing to use them any time they were needed. She never let go of anything she'd sunk her teeth in."

"You didn't like her, did you?" Palamas carefully pitched her voice so low that Aggie, watching the annual desert race patched through from Andor directly**(x)**.

"I tried," Athena said honestly. "The Lords know I tried very hard to befriend her. Apollo was so besotted with her, and my father was delirious that his firstborn son finally got Sealed, and we all liked Boxey…"

"But?" Palamas nudged gently, because there definitely was a _but_ somewhere.

"I never spoke about this to anyone – well, anyone except Omega, who's always been my friend, and I desperately needed to get this off my chest – and I have no proof, of course," Athena said slowly, "but I always had the sneaking suspicion that Serina had better connections to the new _Quorum_ than she'd let us know. There were just too many coincidences."

"For example?" Palamas asked, getting more and more interested in the power struggles among the Colonies. _This might prove useful for future negotiations_, she justified her curiosity to herself, although she'd be willing to admit that she just might be nosy.

"Well, for starters, she was the one who orchestrated the big report about the Peace Treaty, although there were quite a few more experienced newspeople who'd forgotten more about the War than she could ever hope to learn," Athena said grimly. "She was the one to confront my father, standing amidst the smoking ruins of Caprica City about the inability of the military to defend our colonies. After that, she somehow ended up on the _Rising Star_, of all ships: the only surviving luxury liner, where _Sire_ Uri held his court."

"Where there no other refugees aboard the _Rising Star_?" Palamas asked. Athena waved impatiently.

"Of course there were; all remaining ships were stuffed full with refugees. And Serina supposedly lived among them with Boxey on the lower levels. But she came directly from the _Club Elite_ when she waylaid my brother in the corridor, dragging him to her poor, cute little son who was grieving for his lost daggit. And she had no bedding down there… only a mattress for Boxey."

"Is that certain?" Palamas pressed, her detective instincts awakened. Athena nodded.

"Oh, yes. Absolutely. I did a little private investigating when the _Rising Star_ got reopened for everyone. Asked a few harmless questions. Batted my eyelashes at a the maitre'd and a few waiters. Put the pieces together – and didn't like the picture I got a bit."

"Have you ever told your brother what you found out?" Palamas asked. "Or your father?"

Athena shook her head with a bitter smile. "No. By then, Serina was dead already, and whatever scheme she might have been part of, it most likely died with her."

"I won't be so sure about that," Palamas said thoughtfully, "although I do understand why you're unwilling to discuss it with your family. However…"

"I've discussed it with Omega," Athena interrupted, "and with Colonel Tigh, on more than one occasion. I trusted those two; I still do. We haven't forgotten the issue. But we have no evidence, and guessing wildly would only hurt father and Apollo – and Boxey."

"The truth might still come out one day, when you're the least prepared for it," Palamas warned.

"I'm _always_ prepared," Athena said. "That's why I accepted this job. There isn't much I could do from the bridge of the _Galactica_; the big games are played in politics now."

"I'm surprised that your father hasn't accepted," Palamas said. "Or your brother. Forgive me, but they are better known names than you are and might achieve more."

"Unlikely," Athena replied. "Apollo has such a straight military mindset, he expects everyone to fight honestly, although his experiences should have taught him better. Father is a lot shrewder, true, but he's an old man, too tired for any more big fights. He's fulfilled his destiny by leading our people to Earth already."

"You, on the other hand," Palamas trailed off encouragingly. Athena grinned.

"I've inherited mother's interest in politics – and her backbone," she said. "I like watching how the nets are spun behind the scenes, and I'm more ruthless than all the men of our family together. I keep my eyes open, gather my proofs… and prepare to give _Sire_ Uri and his cronies the run of their lives for their money when the time is ripe. And I have the advantage that they keep underestimating me, as if I still were father's little girl."

Palamas grinned back at her. "I like your attitude. Hopefully, one day I'll get the chance to meet the rest of your family. They sound like an interesting bunch."

"Well, that's one way to put it," Athena pulled a funny face, "but I'm related to them, and therefore biased. Most people do find them intriguing. Just put on that dress from before and they'll be eating out of your hand in no time."

They both giggled, taking no notice whatsoever of the man in the black uniform of the border patrol who was watching them thoughtfully.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

So far, the inquiries of Lieutenant Doe hadn't come up with anything of significance. He'd managed to find out the identity of Hunter's company, thank to Ilya Petrenko, who had the useful ability to never forget a face he'd once seen, but neither the man's name, nor his current rank meant much to him. Although, to be perfectly honest, he _did_ find it a bit ridiculous that a high-ranking member of the military would be named after the last letter of an old alphabet. But again, those Colonial folks tended to have weird names; and besides, someone who didn't even know his own full name, shouldn't criticize others.

He'd tried to find out more about this Omega character, but today was Yeoman M'Rhoarh's shift at Operations, and Miss Catwoman, as Ilya called her behind her back, was one of the very few female beings immune against the famous Gabriel Doe charm. _Maybe if I had a tail, too, or orange hair_, he grumbled silently to himself. Not that he'd have seriously considered to woo her, he definitely wasn't into felines, but getting his way with ladies was part of what he _was_ – and he had the feeling that it must always have been so – therefore it made him nervous when it didn't work. Even by oversized housecats with orange manes.

But as things were going at the moment, he had to wait till next watch and then try to squeeze (or charm) some information out of the yeoman from Delta shift. He'd looked up the duty roster and found someone of a fleeting acquaintance whom he knew he could get to spill the bones with some careful nudging. Until then, he could do nothing but wait.

He'd discovered this cosy little restaurant shortly after the doctors had put him together. It was owned by a friendly, rotund matron from the Merak colony, who liked to experiment with rather… unusual dishes and was willing to feed unemployed people in exchange for small task, assumed those tasks were performed to her liking. Even after getting accepted by the border patrol, Lieutenant Doe kept returning for the food… and because the owner vaguely remembered him of someone from his buried past. He didn't know of whom, but he hoped that one day that particular memory would come back. It felt like it would be a pleasant one.

Besides, sitting at a small, lonely table, watching the clientele was fun. There always were some pretty ladies around, which was definitely a bonus, and he liked the children who came here with their families. They always were so happy and content, just like he had been as a small child, when he'd lived in that little house with his mother, near that dark, dim forest…

They'd been just the both of them, most of the time. Sometimes a man with a funny, animated face and with flamboyant clothes came to visit them, and those were good times. He thought the man must have been his father, but he couldn't be sure. His mother was always friendly to the visitor, but always held back a little. As if she'd known that the man would leave them again, soon, no matter what.

He shook his head and watched the excited, red-haired girl with a fond smile. She was happily chatting about school and other stuff kids generally found important, and the two women accompanying her listened with half an ear, while carrying on their own, low-voiced conversation undisturbed. Both were exquisite, he decided. The blue-eyed blonde had a positively angelic look about her (which was most likely a deceiving one), while the other one, pale and dark-haired and very beautiful, seemed to be a formidable personality.

Pictures of two other such women flashed his mind for fleeting second, clad in extravagant evening dresses, measuring each other with cold, angry eyes. He shook his head again. Where had he seen two such beauties before, and why did he have the feeling that they had been at least as mad with him as they had been with each other?

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

In Hunter's office, Omega was being grateful that their midday meal lay centares back. He wasn't sure he could have kept his meal to him, watching the video records Hunter'd had selected for him, had he recently eaten. He'd thought Lieutenant Doe had just a touching likeness to Starbuck? Well, the miserable creature the constabulary had found in some fetid hole on the lower levels most certainly didn't show _anything_ in common with either man. Omega couldn't remember having seen a person in such a horrible shape, ever.

The unfortunate wreck of a human being that he saw on the records was almost naked, save from some dirty rags wrapped around his hips. He'd lost his hair completely, while his bread looked like a filthy mop, covering his entire face. It seemed that he'd been malnourished for a long time, because every rib, every knob, each vertebra was clearly outlined his pallid skin, and his body obviously didn't have the resources to heal his open, festering wounds.

And some wounds those were! Whip marks. Burn marks. Knife wounds that went almost to the bone. Extensive bruises of savage beatings that covered practically every inch of that abused body. It seemed as if someone had tried to systematically beat the man to death. More than just _one_ person, by the look of it.

And yet, the mere sight of the man's desolate state wasn't the worst thing of all. The worst was the almost animalistic fear in those dead eyes as the constables pulled him out of his hiding hole. As if he'd expected his tormentors to return for him.

He obviously wasn't willing to let himself be recaptured. Not without a fight, that is. And fight he did, with the desperate strength of a trapped animal, wringing the last strength of his broken body in an ultimate, savage effort. The constables had to call a med tech with a hypospray to sedate him, or he'd have caused himself even more damage, fighting them.

Omega watched the unfolding scene – and then the doctors' detached reports about the man's injuries, internal and external in same measure – with growing horror. Regardless of this poor devil's true identity, the thought that human beings would be willing to do this to another human, for whatever reason, made him sick. Hunter had been right: something really big (and really ugly) must have been at stake here. And Lieutenant Doe, whoever he might be, was still in grave danger. The ones who'd done this to him, might still find him and finish the job.

Whether he was Starbuck or not, Omega wasn't willing to allow _that_.

TBC

**(x)** Yes, I know that the _Enterprise_ series established Andor as an icy cold world. I don't care. _Enterprise_ has violated formerly established canon so many times that I just don't accept it as a true part of the Star Trek universe. Therefore, I follow the guidelines of "The Worlds of the Federation" by Shane Johnson, a time-honoured resource book, that describes Andor as a hot and arid world, much better suited for an insectoid species anyway.


	5. Chapter 5 Revelations

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

Dr. M'Benga (played by Booker Marshall) was one of Dr. McCoy's sidekicks in Star Trek – The Original Series. He only appeared in two episodes, but it's established in canon that he has worked in a Vulcan hospital for a while. Emphatic Minaran healers are an established part of Star Trek canon. Dr. Sekhet and Jewel are original characters.

Captain Kir'oss (played by Athena Demos) is another character borrowed from Richard Hatch's trailer to "BSG – The Second Coming".

The idea that Jolly, too, might be an orphan, is borrowed from Karen.

* * *

**Chapter 05 – Revelations**

Doctor Salik, the chief medical officer of the _Galactica_, was genuinely surprised when the request from Starbase 7's Starfleet medical facility reached him. It didn't happen too frequently that his colleagues from the Federation asked for his help. Not that he wasn't a good doctor – he was the best in the entire Colonial Fleet – but Federation medicine was simply yahrens upon yahrens ahead of them. All Colonial doctors had been learning frantically to catch up with their Federation counterparts ever since their arrival.

The Starfleet doctors only called for Salik when they were facing a problem specifically related to the slightly different metabolism of Colonial patients. In _that_, he was still the expert.

Calls like that, even if they were rare, did come in occasionally. Several hundred former Colonial refugees were currently living on Starbase 7, from Gemoni _socialators_ through Tauron _agrists_ to Sagittarian mechanics who were busily getting familiar with Federation technology. And quite a few poor, lost souls, too, of course, who'd vanished somewhere on the lower levels, bending in with the humanoid flotsam and jetsam that'd gotten carried there from various Federation worlds.

But those were usually simple cases. Some viruses or bacteria, relatively harmless for Colonial people but dangerous for others with no natural immunity. Some minor peculiarities in the healing process, caused by spontaneous genetic mutation, originating in the living conditions of the original Twelve Worlds. Problems that any of Salik's assistants could resolve without breaking a sweat.

This time, however, they'd asked for Salik specifically. And not only that – he'd also received a personal request from Colonel Omega to come as soon as possible… and alone. Meaning without any of his helpers, of course, as he still needed a shuttle to get over to the space station.

"I can take you in my Viper, doctor," Captain Kir'oss, he new Blue Leader, offered. "That would save you a lot of time."

Kir'oss, one of the few survivors of the _Atlantia_, was one of those typical Arian amazons: an almost painfully thin, olive-skinned woman with jewel-like black eyes and curly dark hair she wore in an impossibly tight bun on the top of her head. Attractive as she might be, she almost made Salik nervous – she was said to be as tough as nails and quite trigger-happy- So the doctor felt an understandable wave of relief that he could gracefully refuse her offer.

"Thank you, Captain, but I'm afraid it'll have to be a shuttle. I need to take some sensitive medical equipment with me, and those don't react well to Viper launches."

"That won't be a problem," Lt. Kalliope said. "Sergeant Jolly is scheduled to take Shuttlecraft Number Four to the Starbase for maintenance; you can go with him, doctor."

"Jolly?" Ensign Greenbean frowned. "I thought it was my turn now!"

Kalliope shrugged. "Colonel's orders, Greenie. I can't help you."

Greenbean grumbled a little – people usually liked these trips to the Federation Starbase because, honestly, what was there _not_ to like, especially compared with the monotony of an onboard duty shift? – but accepted the inevitable. Orders were orders. His time, too, would come, sooner or later.

But Salik got nervous from this news. As a rule, Omega liked the pre-arranged schedules left untouched. He said it made his life so much easier. So, if he'd called in, just to have jolly come instead of Greenbean, something must have happened. Something he needed Jolly for.

And _that_ was definitely bad news – not that the newbies would realize it. For them, Jolly was just a friendly, over-sized daggit with nothing but the next meal on his mind. But those who'd served aboard the _Galactica_ during the last yahrens of the Cylon War knew better.

They knew that Jolly, despite his harmless looks and his silly name – a name that he'd gotten when found amidst the ruins of some small, insignificant colony on a remote moon, wiped out by a casual Cylon attack – was a deadly warrior. _And_ he was loyal to the fault. Once he accepted someone as a friend or as a worthy commanding officer, there was literally nothing he wouldn't do for them. And he would succeed, too, because he feared nothing.

Because he had nothing – and no one – to lose.

He pursued his duties with the same single-minded determination as he pursued the next meal. This obsession with food was the subject of some friendly teasing at times, but Salik (and Jolly's friends) knew the fat pilot couldn't change a thing about it. He'd probably got very little food as a small child on that small colony, and orphanages used to be notoriously short on food, too. Many children had developed an unconscious fear from starving and even as adults, they devoured each meal as if it were their last one. In Jolly's case, it was just a little bit worse than the average. His excess weight never made him any less efficient than his skinnier comrades, though. The fact that he was still alive proved that,

So, if Omega, who was quite high up on Jolly's to-die-for list, needed the pilot specifically, something wrong was going on. Salik exchanged a look with Lt. Kalliope, who gave him a barely visible nod – and a warning glance in the newbies' direction. Salik understood. The lieutenant apparently had been debriefed about the situation, and the newbies, regardless of rank or position, were _not_ to be told.

That smelled awfully like a Code Blue, and Salik was _not_ happy. They hadn't had a Code Blue since they'd started rebuilding the Colonies, and he felt way too old to face another one right now. All he wanted was his peaceful lab in the _Galactica_'s Life Center – and to be left alone.

But he knew Omega wouldn't call him without a reason. And old and tired though he might be, he still knew what he had to do when duty called.

"I'll be going then," he said quietly to Lt. Kalliope, and she nodded in understanding.

"Good luck, doctor."

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Truth be told, Omega had hesitated whether he should involve other people or not. He was worried that he might endanger their lives. But if they wanted absolute certainty, they needed a doctor who was familiar with Starbuck's medical condition – well, the one the pilot had been at the time when he got lost, to be more precise.

The medical records could be useful on their own, but they would be twice as useful if someone with yahrens-long familiarity about the patient interpreted them. And should Lieutenant Doe turn out to be Starbuck – which Omega still wasn't really willing to believe – Dr. Salik would be the best person to calculate the risks any possible treatment might bring with.

_If_ he didn't choose to murder Omega first, for having Kalliope hack into medical database, that is. The old doctor wasn't very forgiving when doctor-patient confidentiality got violated. Omega only hoped he'd understand the necessity… this one time.

He and Aggie had spent the night as Athena's houseguests and now the girl was off to school, for the next round of her tests. Those were designed to reveal her special talents and eventual weaknesses, so that they might choose the school that would match her abilities best. Omega had asked Athena if she could take the girl afterwards again, excusing himself with some vague explanation about planning further cooperation between Colonial patrols and the border guard of Semiramis.

He could tell tat Athena hadn't bought his excuses, but for the time being she'd been willing to give him some breathing space. That would be temporary, though. Sooner or later she would demand to be told what this was all about, especially when she learned that Salik had been called in, too.

Omega dreaded that moment already. There had been a time when Athena and Starbuck seemed to be very much in love – he'd even asked her to Seal with him, right after the Destruction – and even though they'd broken up yahrens ago, Athena remained very protective of the blond pilot. The mere possibility that this Lieutenant Doe might be Starbuck – or what was left of him – would hit her hard. She hadn't dated anyone since their break-up. Whether that meant she still loved him, or at least grieved for him, Omega couldn't tell. But it was _not_ going to be easy for her, that much was certain.

Or for Aurora, Omega realized. She and Starbuck had been together before the Destruction – before Starbuck got reassigned to the _Galactica_ and met Athena, that is – and according to Apollo, for a while it had looked serious. Omega never dared to ask Aurora about that affair – she'd been through enough.

Now he wasn't sure he'd have the luxury of conscious ignorance any longer. He _would_ have to bring up the topic, regardless of the outcome of their investigation; and the thought didn't make him happy.

The intercom unit in front of him buzzed, and the fresh and eager face of a very young yeoman appeared on the small screen.

"Colonel Omega, you're expected in sickbay, sir," she informed him.

"Thank you, Yeoman," Omega suppressed a sigh and stood. The call meant that Salik had arrived. Now they were going to achieve certainty – one way or another.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

_Semiramis_ had several hospitals in the habitat area, each specialized for the needs of the various species that inhabited the station. _Sickbay_, however, was the small but extremely well-equipped medical facility of the _Starbase_, reserved for Starfleet personnel only… save from some very special cases. It was situated within the centerpiece, right beneath Hunter's office (an arrangement from the times when the Base contained nothing else but the central tower and Operations), and it was currently run by an Earth-born physician by the name of Dr. Geoffrey M'Benga.

Omega had met the man before – and so had Salik, for that matter – as M'Benga, beside his station-bound duties, had also been selected by Starfleet Medical to supervise the creation of a large medical centre on New Libra. As an experienced xenobiologist who'd worked on various alien worlds before – including Vulcan what few humans could state about themselves – he was an expert of alien plagues and the methods of stemming quickly an outbreak of one. Which was the very reason why he'd got this temporary assignment in the first place. Colonial refugees and Federation citizens had very different natural immunities; even with the mass vaccinations among both refugees and Starbase inhabitants, an outbreak was a very real threat.

Omega was allowed into the Starfleet facility without being asked a question. Hunter had apparently given orders in advance. The CMO's office was of a pragmatic design: a small, central-lying room, with direct access to the various research labs and the Intensive Care area, the letter of which was currently not occupied.

At the moment, only two people were working there, aside from Salik and M'Benga himself: a male Vulcan of the indefinable age between fifty and a hundred and fifty (with Vulcans, it was always hard to tell) and a soft-faced young woman with wide, doe-like eyes and a serene smile. Neither of them was wearing a uniform, so they must have been civilians.

"Colonel," Dr. M'Benga rose from his seat to greet his visitor. "It's good to see you again."

He was easily as tall as Omega himself, but his slumped shoulders made him seem a great deal shorter. Too many centares spent in various labs, bent over microscopes, might have been the reason for that. His skin was darker than even Tigh's, and he had a deep, rough voice, although a friendly one. However, he didn't shake hands, probably having picked up the Vulcan reluctance of being touched unless it was absolutely necessary.

"I thought I've asked not to involve any other people," Omega said with a frown.

"You have," Dr. M'Benga agreed readily, "but you don't have to worry about my co-workers. Dr. Sekhet is a Vulcan, as you can see, and Jewel here is a Minaran empath. They don't even _have_ vocal cords to begin with… and she's very shy of strangers."

"Which still doesn't explain why you felt the need to get them involved, without asking _me_ about it," Omega wasn't that easy to persuade.

"Colonel," Salik intervened smoothly, "Dr. M'Benga has asked _me_, and it _was_ necessary. Dr. Sekhet is one of the best geneticists of the Federation. He's been mapping the genome of our peoples since we first made contact with Starfleet. He could be a great help in this matter, especially since you don't want _our_ people to know about it. And Miss Jewel is a mind-healer – all Minaran healers have this ability. Now, you haven't given me any details about this… this _project_ here, save from the fact that we need to find out someone's identity – someone's with a massive memory loss. So we had to bring in the people we thought would have the best chance to help... and of whose discretion we could be certain."

"Of course," M'Benga added dryly, "it would be helpful if we knew _what_ exactly are we looking for. Would you care to give us some more detail?"

Omega shook his head. "No, that might influence the way you look at the data."

M'Benga raised an almost Vulcan eyebrow. "You think so? Well, how do you want to get this done, then?"

"I have two very detailed medical files for you," Omega explained. "I want you to dig into them as deep as humanly… erm, as deep as possible," he corrected himself hurriedly, with an apologetic glance at the completely indifferent Vulcan, "and find out whether the people whom these files belong could be related to each other in any way."

Salik shot him a quick, suspicious look. "You already have an inkling, don't you?"

"Not really," Omega said carefully. "There is a… very slight possibility, yes, and we – that is the commodore and I – need to confirm _or_ to rule out that possibility before we decide to make our move. In either way, it's not going to be pretty. But if we can rule out a connection without a doubt, then it's a purely Federation matter and I don't need to get involved."

"And if we can't?" Salik asked warily.

Omega sighed. "Then we have a problem. A big one."

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Lieutenant Doe had stayed in the _Carillon Bar_ till the middle of the previous night, but the Colonial colonel never came. Well, that wasn't so surprising; they hadn't exactly made an appointment, had they? And an important person like Colonel Omega surely had important stuff to do, all the time. The executive officer of a battlestar didn't have the time to play pyramid with nameless pilots.

But why had he made the vague offer in the first place, then?

Yeah, Lieutenant Doe _had_ managed to slip into the Operations database… with some involuntary help from a clueless yeoman. So, now he knew all that was there to know about the man – not that it would be much. How came that there were barely data about someone in his position? And the file wasn't even classified.

Sure, the man was a really big shot. Not only a colonel, but also the member of their Planetary Council. A patrician, with the line of his ancestors longer than his arm. But that didn't say anything about the kind of person he really was – and why he'd have been interested in Gabriel Doe.

For there couldn't be any doubt that for some reason, the colonel _was_ interested. Lieutenant Doe could still feel the intense stare of those dark eyes as a physical touch. As if the man would have tried to peek directly into his soul – assuming he _had_ one, he added with a mental snort. He was not a believer, and somehow he couldn't imagine that he'd ever have been.

As for the colonel, though… there was something about the man that wouldn't leave him alone. For some reason, he associated the dark, elegant figure with the urgent howling of alarm klaxons – a sound that most definitely _didn't_ belong to the Starbase – and the instinct to run with all his might to some indefinite place, to jump into some sort of combat ship… he could almost physically feel the pressure on his entire body as the G-forces f the launch pressed him into his pilot's seat…

He shook his head. This was ridiculous. Tennet-5 hunters had inertial dampeners and didn't get catapulted out of launch tubes like some sort of bullet. All those tell tales about Colonial pilots seen on TriVid must have influenced his imagination.

He forced his attention back to his cards. If he wanted to win a few hundred credits off these greenhorns so that he could go to the _Carillon Bar_ tonight, he needed to focus. The place was _not_ cheap.

"Well, gentlemen," he said in his best, charming manner. "Is anybody willing to raise the stakes?"

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Omega was watching the doctors work with the motionless patience of a sphynx. He didn't understand much about medicine in general, and what was going on here, before his eyes, was way above the normal daily practice. The portable DNA-sequences Salik had brought with him was the peak of Colonial medical technology, but it seemed fairly primitive compared with the instruments of the Starfleet doctors. Salik still insisted to check the preserved samples of Lieutenant Doe with it – apparently, sickbay had a collection of samples from all station personnel – stating that the readings wouldn't be fully comparable otherwise.

"That's odd," the doctor murmured, after having re-done his analysis twice. Omega's ears perked up.

"Have you found something?" he asked.

"Perhaps," Salik said. "I'm not really sure. Dr. Sekhet, would you take a look at _this_ sequence here?"

The Vulcan studied the diagram with the customary, patient thoroughness of his kind – then one of his arched eyebrows climbed up to his hairline.

"Fascinating," he said in a flat voice. "Definitely an anomaly. Have you seen something like that before?"

"Oh, yes," Salik nodded, with a bit of smug satisfaction that he could show his Federation colleagues something new. "You'll come across it, too, in the line of your genetic research, sooner or later. This is a set of recessive Leonid genes."

"What do you mean _Leonid_ genes?" Dr. M'Benga asked. "It's been my understanding that your people all belong to the same species – the same one as our own."

"That is true," Salik said. "But due to the fact that the different tribes were exposed to very different environmental conditions, after a few thousand yahrens it came to very small, practically insignificant genetic mutations that enabled the people to adapt to the conditions of their respective homeworlds better."

"So, des this mean that Lieutenant Doe is a Leonid?" Omega asked. As much as it surprised him that the man would be one of the Colonial refugees, _that_ definitely ruled Starbuck out. Starbuck had been a Caprican.

"Not exactly," Salik corrected. "This means that _one_ of his parents was a Leonid. The mutated Leonid genes are recessive – if a Leonid marries someone from another tribe, all their children would show the tribal characteristics of the other parent. Take Captain Boomer, for example. He does look like a full-blooded Libran, although his mother was a Leonid."

"True enough," Omega said. "We can also say that this Lieutenant Doe is one of our people?"

"I wouldn't know," Salik replied blandly, "since you haven't told me any names. But yes, I can tell you without doubt that the man whose medical data we've been analyzed for the last couple of centares _is_ one of us. The small discrepancies between our peoples and Earth-originated humans are clearly here, and so are the tribal characteristics. _Both_ sets of them."

"He's half-Leonid, then," M'Benga said. "And his other half?"

"Caprican," Salik kept studying the genetic sequences. "I'd say, he's a blue-eyed blond, with a remarkable physical resilience against the common illnesses. About thirty yahrens old. Perhaps a little older."

M'Benga nodded. "That'd be about right."

"You know the man?" Salik asked.

"Only fleetingly," M'Benga shrugged. "I don't do the bi-monthly physicals for station personnel myself. That's what nurses are for. Now, Colonel, since we already know who one of our subjects is, can't you just stop playing mysterious and tell us the rest."

"Not yet," Omega answered. "Not before you've done your analysis on the other data file. Please, trust me in this; it's very important."

"I'd also have an important question, Colonel," Salik's voice turned icy cold after the first glimpse at Starbuck's file. "Would you mind to tell me how this file found its way from _my_ classified database here?"

"I pulled rank," Omega replied, completely unperturbed.

"That wouldn't have done you any good," Salik stated angrily. "I outrank you – and everyone else in the Fleet, for that matter – in medical questions, and I haven't authorized the extraction of this particular file."

Salik's legendary wrath was a well know quality all over he Fleet, but Omega didn't back off.

"Doctor, this is a Code Blue situation, which gives me the right to do things I wouldn't be allowed to do otherwise, and you know that. I'll justify my actions by Commander Apollo if this is all over. Now, would you _please_ make the fracking analysis?"

Salik was a little taken aback – in all the yahrens they'd served together aboard the _Galactica_, he'd never heard Omega swear. Or seen him lose his patience. _Lords, but this must be something big!_

"As you wish, sir," he replied, stiff with indignation, and returned to his work.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Flight Sergeant Jolly had delivered Shuttlecraft Number Four to maintenance, checked in with the colonel, called Athena to see whether he could be of any use for her, and when it seemed that he wouldn't be needed for a while, he was all too happy to take the rest of the morning for himself. Athena had made him promise they would have lunch together, with the additional company of the colonel's daughter, and Jolly, who liked children and had always loved Athena, agreed readily.

However, lunch was still centares ahead, and his inner unrest, that had started about forty centons earlier, was getting stronger. He needed food.

He'd accepted this peculiar sort of addiction a long time ago. Sure, it irritated him to Hades when people made fun of his constant hunger. It even hurt when his friends wire doing the teasing, But he'd come to understand that this was something he had to live with.

And besides, it wasn't so that he'd crave huge amounts of food. He just needed to know that it was _available_, all the time. In fact, he didn't eat any larger helpings than the others – but his body seemed to have the ingrained ability to make the most of what it got. The psychotechs said it was because he most likely had to live on very little in his first six yahrens. _The human body_, they said, _has wondrous ways to help itself_. But they couldn't help him either; they couldn't free him from his food addiction.

So he had learned to live with it. He'd developed the custom of keeping small snacks on him, to avoid the humiliating attacks of ravenous hunger that had made him the joke of his squadron in the first yahrens of duty. It was against regs, but he had a writ from the Life Center that he needed it, so his commanding officers didn't interfere. At first, it bought him more teasing and stinging jokes, but in time, his comrades got used to it. As long as he watched their backs in battle – which he did better than most – they didn't care.

It was an awkward existence sometimes, but at least it worked for him. He could have tried deep hypnosis, of course. Colonial warriors always got the best possible medical care, since were critical for the survival of the Fleet. Perhaps that could have helped with his little problem. He'd discussed the possibility with his two closest friends, but both Boomer and Starbuck found it a stupid idea.

_You let them poke around in your head, you can't know what damage they might cause_, Starbuck, who'd had very unpleasant memories about psychotechs, had said. After all, they couldn't help _him_ with his trauma-induced memory blockade, either. All they could do had been make him relive the few painful memories he'd left.

Boomer and Starbuck… Jolly missed them both very much. Too many people had left or got lost. Sure, Omega was still there, and would probably be till the _Galactica_ fell to tiny pieces of rusty metal. So was Apollo, though less frequently, as his duties as Fleet Commander often called him elsewhere. And Greenbean and Giles and Brie, yes, and a few of the original bridge officers… but that wasn't the same.

In the not-so-good old times, Blue Squadron had been something special. Not only the best squadron in the entire wing; it was also family. For him and Starbuck before all else, as they hadn't had any other family; for – Boomer who'd lost his, and, yes, even for Apollo. The four of them had been closest friends since the Academy, even though Jolly hadn't made it till graduation, switching to flight training after the second yahren and going straight to the front afterwards. As long as they were together, he hadn't felt the lack of a family so keenly.

But then Starbuck had not returned from that patrol, and as if he'd been the glue that had held their little circle together, they began to drift apart. As they had found Earth, against all hope (because honestly, who else than Commander Adama had ever seriously believed in the existence of that mythical planet?) Boomer got picked as Colonel Tigh's personal aide and left the fleet to build himself a new life on Earth's sister planet, a world named Mars.

Jolly could understand him. He'd met Boomer's future wife aboard the _Enterprise_ – she was a lovely, intelligent, temperamental woman who made Boomer very happy. Jolly _wanted_ his friend happy. But that didn't mean he wouldn't miss him. After Apollo's promotion to Commander, he was the only one from their close-knit group left. And that made him more than a little lonely sometimes.

It did have its advantages, of course. Since he had no dependents, he could afford to accept dangerous missions that people with families wouldn't. Not battle situation in these days – life in their new home systems had been blessedly quiet so far, save from the occasional pirate raid. Thus Omega – and even Apollo – sometimes called for his help when they needed someone observed. Nobody wasted a second look at a fat pilot who obviously had nothing but food on his mind.

He wondered what it might be this time. Omega had sounded as always: calm, aloof, matter-of-fact. But he _had_ changed the pre-arranged schedule to get Jolly aboard the Starbase, and that was, for Omega anyway, close to calling a full battle alert. Something was very wrong.

Well, he'd learn it soon enough. First things first. He needed food – and some distraction. Fortunately, the _Arcade_ (the shopping and entertainment deck of the Starbase) offered an amazing variety of both.

He chose one of the smaller clubs, owned by an Argelian, if the shield was any indication; in Federation terms, that meant good food and solid entertainment. He found a small table in the background, which was fine with him. He didn't want any company at the moment. He'd sit there, eat his food and watch the group of border patrol pilots and station technicians (easily identifiable by their horrid orange coveralls) play cards.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

"And you have no doubts whatsoever?" Omega asked, his voice as calm as ever, but his face chalk white. "There's no chance for an error?"

Salik shook his head. "None. These two are definitely the same person."

Omega closed his eyes for a micron. He felt sick. His first, vague instinct proved to be correct, after all. No matter how much he'd tried to back-pedal mentally in the last centares – and Lords, had he tried! – Lieutenant Doe _was_ Starbuck. He would think about the whys and hows later. And about what they should do with this shocking revelation. Right now, he needed to gather as much information as he could.

"How is it possible that the fact of a Leonid parent hasn't come out earlier?" he asked.

Salik shrugged. "We didn't do a detailed genetic map on our pilots; we just checked if they were fit for duty. There was no need for more – except in this special case."

"So you know whose file this is?" Omega asked. Salik shot him an exasperated look.

"Colonel, I've been the chief medical officer of the _Galactica_ as long as you've stood on her bridge! Nah," he corrected himself, "actually, you were still a snot-nosed cadet when I became head physician of the Life Center. I've created this file in the first place and have updated it regularly – you wouldn't expect me _not_ to recognize it, would you? Besides, Starbuck was the only pilot, to my knowledge, whose genetic make-up has been checked out."

"When we thought Chameleon might be his father," Omega nodded. "Only that it turned out a mistake."

"Actually," Salik said dryly, "it wasn't a mistake at all. Chameleon _was_ Starbuck's father,"

"What?" for the second time in yahrens, Omega actually lost his legendary calm. "Why the frack did you tell Starbuck that he wasn't, then?"

He'd chosen the wrong person to yell at, though.

"Come down off your epaulettes, Colonel, I'm not one of your frightened recruits," Salik told him coldly. "Firstly, I only learned about this when Chameleon was found dead aboard the Senior Ship. By that time, Starbuck had already been lost for sectares. Secondly, it was Chameleon's wish, at least according to Cassie. He hadn't wanted Starbuck to give up his life, his career for him. He'd thought he'd make a better friend than a father."

"Or he was just afraid of the responsibility and ran off on Starbuck like the cowardly old daggit that he was," Omega, still grieving father of four dead children, commented without sympathy. "And Cassiopeia agreed why? Out of the goodness of her heart? Or was she afraid that Starbuck would dump her, too, to be with his father, and then she'd lose all the conveniences of being the girlfriend of an ace pilot who could always win enough cubits in chancery to spoil her rotten?"

"It was very unprofessional of her," Salik agreed. "I'm sure she had Sealing Ceremony firmly before her eyes and didn't want to lose the chance. She was a skilled med tech, but I always felt that it was too mundane for her. She'd been used to money and glamour – she wanted that kind of life again."

"Is that the reason why you send her away, right before the end of our journey?" Omega asked.

"No," Salik said. "I sent her away after discovering the truth about Chameleon because I can't work with an assistant who lies to me. Who lies to a patient when it serves her personal interests."

"I can understand that," Omega said, "although in hindsight, what good would it have done to Starbuck, had he left Service to become Chameleon's junior con man?"

"Well," Salik replied with extreme dryness, "knowing what's become of him, we can say that _remaining_ in Service hasn't done him a fat lot of good, either."

"That's very true," Omega admitted glumly.

"And what do you intend to do now that you've found out the man's identity?" Dr. M'Benga asked.

"That's a tough question," Omega answered. "At least Commodore Hunter doesn't need to worry about 'Lieutenant Doe'. The ball is back in our court, but to decide what needs to be done, I'll have to consult a few people… very discretely."

"You're not going to tell him just yet, are you?" Salik asked.

"No," Omega said. "He's safer when he doesn't know, and he's less likely to run someone who might recognize him here, on the Base."

"That," Salik remarked, having seen some of the station's records about 'Lieutenant Doe', "is highly unlikely."

"I have recognized him," Omega reminded the doctor. "Well, not exactly recognized, I admit, but I became suspicious, and so could others. As long as he doesn't remember, it's better for him to remain Gabriel Doe. I'll have to tell Commodore Hunter the truth, of course, but that's all for the moment. I don't think I need to remind you of the necessity to keep this among us for the time being."

"We're doctors," M'Benga said with a shrug. "We've all sworn the Hippocratic Oath… or the Vulcan equivalent of it. But this man of yours, whether in disguise or not, will need protection. What little I've learned about the power struggle between the remaining Colonial patricians during my work on New Libra, it didn't seem promising. It seems there's very little some people wouldn't do to extend their influence."

"You shouldn't take everything Librans tell you for face value, "Omega said with a wry smile. "They've always been a little biased. I won't say they're generally lying, but they do tend to exaggerate, especially when they feel they've been wronged. You're right, though. We need to keep an eye on Star… on _Lieutenant Doe_, until we find out what really happened. And what kind of game is being played in the background."

"Is that why you've called in Jolly?" Salik guessed.

Omega nodded. "He's done observation before, very successfully. And he was also a close friend of Starbuck's. I think it'll be safe to fill him in."

"But he'll have to return to the _Galactica_, after the shuttle maintenance is done," Salik said.

"No, he won't," Omega replied. "I need you to fake some medical condition for him to remain aboard the station. At least until I've consulted some people who actually have the power to _do_ something."

Salik nodded. "I can do that, sure. But Colonel… there's something else here that _really_ bothers me."

"Oh? And that would be?"

"I could swear that I've seen a very similar set of dormant Leonid genes, not so long ago."

"How that?" Omega frowned. "I thought you didn't do DNA-sequencing on our pilots?"

"We still don't," Salik answered. "But when we started settling down on the new homeworlds, we did a lot of genetic mapping on _civilians_. Partly for Dr. Sekhet's research project, partly because people began looking for possible lost relatives in earnest."

"Well, we _do_ know now that Chameleon was Starbuck's father," Omega pointed out reasonably.

"No," Salik said. "You misunderstood me. Chameleon was one hundred per cent Caprican. That means, Lieutenant Starbuck must have inherited his Leonid genes from his mother – whoever she might have been."

"I see," Omega said slowly. "And since you've seen that similar set of genes lately, Starbuck must still have some blood relatives among the civilian population."

"Among the Leonids," Salik clarified. "Or, to be more accurate, a hybrid with dormant Leonid genes."

"Which leads us back to _Sire_ Uri and his allies," Omega commented dryly. "How… _surprising_."

Salik seemed doubtful, though. "Somehow, I can't imagine Uri to be behind such a vicious action. He's a snake, that's true, but he doesn't have the backbone to go through something like that to the end."

"No, I don't think he'd be the orchestrator of this entire mess," Omega agreed. "I do think he's involved, up above his ears, but the mastermind behind the scheme is someone else. Someone we wouldn't even suspect, I believe."

"And that's what makes me seriously worried," Salik said. "If Starbuck was taken for a purpose, and I don't think we can doubt _that_ after all we've found today, the people behind this probably haven't played out their capstone card yet."

"Most likely," Omega said. "This seems to be a long-winded plan, forged with much patience – and with no good intentions. Doctor, can you retract this set of genes to find out who their owner is?"

"Sure," Salik nodded. "It would take a few centares, our database is quite extensive, but I can do it. And if I find him – or her – we might have done an important step in the right direction."

"Do it then," Omega ordered, "but not from here. I've taken a bit of a risk having Starbuck's file sent here, but a quick data transfer might have come through undetected. A lengthy search from an outside comm station would _not_."

"You think we might have spies aboard the _Galactica_?" Salik asked with a frown.

"With all those newbies, who could tell?" Omega answered with an elegant shrug. "When my furlong is over, I can keep a closer eye on what they are doing. But I need to have those talks right away, as long as I can move around freely. Finding an excuse to leave the _Galactica_ wouldn't be easy – and it would raise suspicions."

"I'll return to the Life Center with Shuttlecraft Number Four," Salik promised. "And I'll debrief you about my search results when you're back on board."

"Agreed," Omega rose. "Doctors, I'd appreciate if you could give me a detailed report on Star… on _Lieutenant Doe_'s condition. Physical, mental, and emotional. Some suggestions how we might to remove his memory blockade would be nice, too. What the risks would be, and what kind of therapy he would need, should he regain his memory. I have to present facts when the ones with power and influence decide to make their move."

M'Benga nodded. "You can count on us, Colonel. If we can save anyone else to suffer a similar fate, we'll do our best."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6 A Game of Pyramid

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

The strange terms are partly from the series itself, partly from the Battlestar Galactica Terminology page. Only the _furling_, a kind of ant-eater, is mine.

* * *

**Chapter 06 – A Game of Pyramid**

The child was not afraid of the dark, gloomy forest – for him, the tall trees were like old friends. He'd learned to climb the knobbly trunks almost at the same time as he'd learned how to walk. He knew how to use the spiky vines the trees were girdled with like one would use a ladder. How to hide among the long leaves, further up, where the long spikes formed a second canopy, filled with fallen leaves. Small animals lived up there, scrawny and grey or brown like the trees themselves, and they never set foot on the ground. But if he climbed up to them, with nuts or died fruits, the little rodents came forth from their hiding places, accepted the treats and allowed him to play with them in exchange.

The Forest could be deadly for the unwary, that was true. The thorns could grow as long as the child's arm, and they were hard like bone. Again and again happened that somebody walked into the Forest in a careless manner, overlooked one or two such deadly spikes, getting pierced through and never could come off again. It was a horrible death, sure, but that child knew how to avoid the thorns and thus never got hurt.

There were other perils, too, and some he'd had to learn at his own, bitter price. Like how you shouldn't knock the thorns off their trunks, no matter how easy it might be to do from the right angle, with a sharp enough kick, unless you could descend the tree and run away _really_ fast. The sap that leaked from the tree's wound was thick and sweet like honey, but it attracted all kinds of _crawlon_s whose touch caused a horribly itching rash; or _apid_s and _skeeton_s that, if they came in great numbers, could sting you to death. And they called to the field the long-snouted _furling_, a creature that fed on _crawlon_s but had vicious claws on its thickly furred paws, and didn't hesitate to lash out with them.

But if one knew what to stay away from, the Forest could be an exciting place. The small blue flowers sitting on the spiky vine were beautiful, and there was singing and merry chatter above the canopy of thorns, where the _avian_s and other invisible animals dwelt, and once he'd ever seen a _vulpine_ sneak around under the trees.

Yes, the Forest could be a wondrous place, and _Isme_ didn't mind letting him go there. On the contrary, she'd been the one showing him all the tricks around the trees, and she'd taught him how to run and vanish between them, should danger of any kind approach. No stranger would ever follow him there, she'd said, and from the people of the village, he had nothing to fear.

But today he couldn't stay long. Today was his natal day, and _Isme_ had promised to make him _shorsa_ for dinner; and there would be presents, and perhaps the funny man who always told lots of jokes and showed tricks that amazed the other children to no end would come and visit them again.

He'd reached the rim of the Forest already when he heard the screaming. No, actually, he heard that high-pitched, whining nose first, awfully loud and threatening and so very different from the sad cries of the _avian_s that couldn't be heard anymore now. Just the screaming.

Above his head, silver wings zig-zagged all over the darkening sky, and there was fire everywhere, long, cruel tongues of hissing fire, licking along the little houses of the agrostation, so that they caught flame at once. And the people were running to and fro like headless _gallidian_s, and he could see among them _Isme_, her lush dark hair matted with blood, shrieking, _Run, Gabriel, run!_

He ran. His legs took him back into the Forest, faster than he'd ever run before in his young life, and he kept running blindly, not looking where he put his feet, until they got caught in some creeping vine, and he fell and fell and fell…

… and sat upright in his bed, covered in cold sweat, his heart throbbing like the warp core of a great starship. All his limbs were trembling.

What the frack was this? He'd often dreamed about the thorn forest before, but hose had been pleasant dreams, about climbing the trees and collecting the blue flowers for his mother… they never ended like this. And who was _Isme_? Was she truly his mother? Why would he think his mother had been blond? He couldn't remember any other woman from his childhood but _Isme_, she'd been in all those memories and all those dreams, and she was always safe and friendly and loving… She _had_ to be his mother, hadn't she?

What was this elderly voice speaking in his head, then, saying, _She_ _is blonde like your mother was_?

What was happening to him?

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

"So," Athena said languidly, curling up on the _extremely_ comfortable couch in her living room, "it has been four days. Are you willing to let me in at least?"

"I don't think that would be such a good idea," Omega stared into his up of excellent _kava_ thoughtfully. Athena rolled her eyes.

"Colonel," she said, her voice taking on some of that icy quality she used when dealing with overprotective male relatives. "I'm not your little bridge officer anymore, you know. Or Father's baby girl who needs to be shielded against he big, bad world. I'm a diplomat who gets to negotiate with alien dignitaries on behalf of our peoples. If the Vulcan ambassador can take me seriously and treat me as her equal, it shouldn't be so hard for you, either."

"Perhaps you are right," Omega replied with a rueful grin. "I'm sorry. Old habits are hard to break."

"Especially if they shouldn't have _become_ a habit in the first place," Athena riposted, still a little annoyed. "Now, speak! What have you been up with the commodore and Salik and Jolly all these days? Your daughter certainly didn't get to see you much; and you were supposed to give her moral support during this important time, not to dump her onto someone she barely knows."

"That wasn't how I've planned out this _furlough_, believe me," Omega sighed. "But something came up. Something unexpected and very unsettling, and I had to check out possibilities and gather evidence and…"

"Stop right away," Athena warned him sternly. "You're obfuscating, and frankly, you're not very good at it. What kind of evidence?"

"Concerning Starbuck's loss," Omega tried to dose the news carefully. "We were trying to figure out the exact circumstances of his disappearance."

Athena's eyes widened in surprise. "You think something was foul with it? But what can you hope to find out _now_? I mean, it's been almost three yahrens, in another galaxy…"

"Oh, we _have_ found out a lot of strange things all right," Omega said grimly. "Just not the whys and the whos… and the hows."

"But you do know now what happened to him?" Athena half-asked, half-stated.

Omega nodded. "Oh, yes. It turns out he was never truly lost, to begin with."

"_What_?" Athena became deadly pale. "You're not saying you've actually _found_ him, are you?"

"That's a matter of interpretation," Omega sighed. "Let's just say that I know _where_ he is… I just don't know _who_ he is."

"You're talking felgercarb," Athena told him succinctly. Omega sighed again.

"He's alive, Athena, but he has no memories whatsoever about his former life," he explained. "He created himself a new life and a new identity, and I _really_ think we should leave him there for the time being. For his own safety."

Athena digested _that_ for a centon or two.

"All right," she then said. "I'm buying… for now. Tell me everything – and I mean _everything_, even if you don't think it's important. I happen to know more about what's going on on the Colonies than you."

That might be true, Omega realized. As the Special emissary, she moved around a lot, and she had friends on practically every world. Some from Service, some due to her position as a daughter of a patrician family.

So he told her everything he'd learned – or guessed – in the recent days. Athena listened to him carefully, with the occasional question to clarify some details. When he'd finished, she was quiet for a while, putting away the various pieces of information to their respective places in that amazing biological database that was her mind. Omega had known the process from the time when they'd served together – he could practically see the cogwheels and relays moving in her head. She was an almost frighteningly smart woman, and Omega had learned not to be fooled by her beauty and easy-going manner.

You didn't want _Siress_ Athena as your enemy, unless you had a death wish.

"That was… informative," she finally said. "Thank you, old friend. I can't help you with the whos and the hows, but I believe I see now at least one of the whys."

"You do?" Omega said in surprise. "Then you see more than I do."

"Because you don't look at the bigger picture," she said. "Think, Omega: _when_ did Starbuck get lost? No," she forestalled his prompt answer, "I don't mean the date. What had happened right before?"

"Ah!" suddenly, Omega felt like an idiot. "The Libran Rebellion!"

She nodded. "Right. Now, who was the orchestrator and the charismatic leader of the Libran Rebellion?"

Omega shrugged. "Why, _Sire_ Gamesh, of course. And after he and his cronies got killed, the seat of the Libran Councillor went to poor _Sire_ Togo, who, frankly, wasn't up to the challenge."

"Right," Athena said. "And do you remember whom did the _Quorum_ try to dig into the whole mess as a convenient scapegoat?"

"Colonel Tigh," Omega replied. "He used to be shield brother to _Sire_ Gamesh, after all, and Librans take that sort of thing very seriously. That's why so many were inclined to believe that Tigh had known about Gamesh's scheme and helped him."

"Because they don't know the ways of Libran shieldbrothers," Athena corrected. "Before all else, the _kardash_ swear an oath to protect each other. Gamesh would never have endangered Tigh's life and position by getting him involved. Oh, I don't doubt that Tigh would have supported him _afterwards_, had Gamesh managed to seize power and keep it, but he'd never have participated in overthrowing the legally elected government. He's an honest, straightforward warrior, and Gamesh of all people knew it."

"Well, the _Quorum_ didn't share your opinion," Omega said. "I've been interrogated in this context myself, several times, by various Councillors _and_ by Council Security."

"I know," Athena nodded, "I've had my own unpleasant encounters with Chief Reese. They were awfully eager to throw Tight to the lupines… and everyone else who was connected to him in any way. _Sire_ Solon was temporarily removed from his position of Chief Opposer, even."

"Well, he _is_ the brother of Tigh's late wife," Omega pointed out reasonably, "so _that_, at the very least, was understandable. But in any case, they couldn't find the slightest evidence, and they didn't dare to make him a fake process. It would have revealed a few dirty secrets concerning how the Libran ships had been neglected all along the journey."

"True," Athena said. "What Gamesh did was foolish and out of the line, but we can't state with good conscience that he had no reason for it. However, it _was_ during the witch hunt against Tigh that Starbuck mysteriously vanished from the sensors and never reappeared."

Omega didn't like the possible connection at all.

"Do you think that someone abducted Starbuck in an attempt to create evidence against Tigh?" he asked.

"It's a possibility, isn't it?" Athena shrugged. "If someone didn't know him well, that is. You and I know that Starbuck, irresponsible as he might be in small things, was a very loyal person – and his loyalties couldn't be bought."

Omega nodded in agreement. That would explain a lot of things… including the torture. But not everything. He couldn't help the feeling that there must have been more. That so far, they'd barely scratched the surface of things.

"Of course, they couldn't let him go afterwards," Athena continued. "And just a few sectares later, Chameleon was found dead in his quarters on the Senior Ship. Isn't that convenient?"

"You suspect termination?" Omega asked. "Interrogation said heart attack. He was an old man."

"A very nosy old man," Athena replied, "who often got in trouble for sticking that nose of his into other people's business. Remember the affair with the Nomen? Perhaps he started asking the wrong questions again."

"So, that means you know that he _was_ Starbuck's father, after all?" Omega asked.

Athena nodded. "Cassie told me – and Apollo – after his death. There was no need to keep it secret anymore."

"There was no need to keep it secret in the first place," Omega said angrily. "Starbuck has yearned for a family all his life – all orphans do. Even if that cowardly old daggit didn't want parental responsibilities, Cassiopeia had no right to keep that knowledge from Starbuck."

"Oh, I agree," Athena said soothingly. "In fact, I gave Cassie a piece of my mind about it, and since then we don't really speak. Bunt think about it: Chameleon lived on the Senior Ship, with a whole bunch of old people who had nothing else to do but plot and gossip. Some of them had been heads or members of rich, influential families, or else they wouldn't have managed to get rescued to begin with. These people were used to money and power – would it be surprising if they wanted to get it back? And where could they have spun their nets more undisturbed than on the Senior Ship, well disguised among harmless, senile old people?"

"Unless you have an old con man with a way too mobile nose on your back," Omega added. "Curiosity called the felix, as they say."

"Exactly," Athena agreed. "There are drugs that can simulate a heart attack so that no doctor would ever detect the difference. Some of them are even given to old people as medicine – in the right dosage. You just need to give someone a little too much, and…" she made an expressive gesture.

"That sounds awfully convincing," Omega admitted glumly. "Unfortunately, that still doesn't give us a clue who might be behind the whole scheme."

"Not yet," Athena said, "but perhaps Dr. Salik's search will provide us with some evidence. Can you find a way to keep me informed? We both need to be on our toes – this is not over yet."

"No, I don't think so, either," Omega said. "I'll think of something, I promise. We must be very careful, though. This is a long-winded game, and if we don't get all players at once, it might start anew, after a while."

"Do you want me to inform Father and Apollo?" Athena asked. "I'm scheduled for a visit at the Planetary Council next secton anyway, so I can do it without drawing any undue attention."

"Your father certainly," Omega replied. "Apollo… I'm not sure. Without the calming presence of Boomer, he might do something foolish in his first wrath, and that could crush our hope to reveal this little – or perhaps not so little – conspiracy for good."

"He has the right to know," Athena reminded gently. "Starbuck was like a brother for him."

"Which is exactly why I don' want him to know just yet," Omega said. "It's not like Starbuck would recognize him anyway – and Apollo could endanger him unintentionally."

Athena thought about it for a micron.

"All right," she said. "I'll tell Father and let _him_ decide when to let Apollo in."

"That could work," Omega allowed. "I'll keep you informed."

"I certainly hope so," Athena replied and Omega could see in her eyes that she meant it. "And now that we're done with politics and conspiracies, let us go and get Aggie, before she thinks we've forgotten her."

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Lieutenant Doe discarded two cards from his hand and received replacements from the dealer. He eyed his new constellation contentedly. Now he had a third level pyramid, consisting of three third level purple cards, two second level green cards and a first level card, also in purple. Which was a pretty good hand, all things considered – only a perfect pyramid of also the third level could still beat him.

Of course, the question was what might the other player – a short, rotund, easily irritated Tellarite construction worker – might have in the hand. The stakes were fairly high already. Whoever managed to win, he'd make a small fortune. The Tellarite (a surprisingly good player by the way) obviously was well aware of tat, as he was wriggling on his seat nervously.

The risks were twofold at the moment. Lieutenant Doe could spread his hand and demand to see the other player's as well. If the Tellarite had a perfect pyramid, he was broke for good. No visits in the _Carillon Bar_ for a while; or in any other place of the _Arcade_, for that matter.

He could wait another round, of course. But then he'd be risking that the Tellarite got better replacement cards and _then_ achieve a perfect pyramid. Which would be just as bad in the outcome.

Nah, it was better to face reality now.

"I want to see it," he said calmly.

The Tellarite gave him a smug grin and spread his cards. It was a third level pyramid, too, with three third level green cards, two second level orange cards and a first level green card.

"I won!" he declared with a self-satisfied grunt.

"I don't think so," Lieutenant Doe said in well-concealed relief and spread his own hand. "You forget that purple ranks highest and orange ranks lowest. Therefore, _I won_."

And he began to collect his winnings – just to have a three-fingered hoof pin his hand to the table.

"You'll leave that there," the Tellarite grated, poking with his other hoof the human's chest. "You're a liar and a thief! I got more cards of the same colour. That's better!"

"Yes, but only if _all_ your cards are the same colour," Lieutenant Doe tried to step back from the poking hoof; his ribs remained sensitive, even after a year and a half since they'd been fused together, and the Tellarite's hoof was hard. "_Then_ you'd have a perfect pyramid, and you'd have won. Since they're _not_, I've won. So say the rules."

"I know of no such rule!" the Tellarite roared. "You're cheating, and I won't allow _that_!"

He poked harder, accidentally hitting a sore spot – and that was when the human lost it.

_They hit his already aching ribs with those Libran fighting sticks – he could feel his bones break. It hurt so much that he couldn't suppress a wordless shriek of pain. They laughed. He knew if they hit him one more time, a broken rib might puncture his lung, and that would be the end of him._

_Perhaps it would have been easier to let them kill him. He'd never leave this horrid place again; they wouldn't let him, not now that he knew who they were. But giving up wasn't in his nature, he'd not give them the satisfaction of an easy victory. If they wanted to kill him, they'd have to work harder on that._

_With superhuman strength that only despair could have loaned his broken body, he lunged at his tormentor, fletching his teeth like a rabid lupine, with murder in his eyes. They'd overwhelm him in the end, he knew that, but before it came to that, he'd kill at least this one, so that he couldn't boast about having broken him._

_Somebody grabbed his upper arms, no, that were at least two people, and wrestled him away from his chosen prey. He didn't want to let go, he had to kill at least this one, he had to make them pay for what they'd done to him… He tried to free himself, snarling and kicking and biting like a madman, but the hands holding him were strong, too strong, and he was so broken, barely alive…_

_When the darkness finally embraced him, he went willingly._

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

He came to in a room he'd never seen before. It didn't look like a prison cell; that was a relief in any case, but it wasn't his own quarters, either. It looked like one of those cheap rent rooms visitors of the station could get for a few credits, the ones with those couches that could unfold into a real bed. He was lying on one of those couches, neatly tucked in and covered with a blanket. Strange…

There were other people in the room, sitting at the table in the middle. One was a big, heavy-set man, in the beige and brown uniform of a Colonial pilot, the other a blue-faced Andorian woman from Semiramis' civilian constabulary. At least he recognized the Andorian as Constable Tarah, one of the ranking security officers of the station. The pilot was someone he'd never seen before. They were apparently discussing the recent events.

"You can also verify that Lieutenant Doe didn't violate the rules of that card game?" the Andorian asked in that weak, dry voice of her kind.

The pilot nodded. "He played fair. I saw both hands spread on the table. The lieutenant had the same level of pyramid as the _boray_, but he had the better colours. He had the highest level cards in purple, and purple _always_ ranks highest."

"Do these facts stand written in the official rulebook?" the Andorian asked.

"Of course," the pilot said. "And the rules are attached to each deck of pyramid cards that gets sold."

"Why didn't then…" the Andorian checked his notes. "Why did Mr. Gar not know them?"

"My guess is: he did," the pilot answered with a scowl. "He's a damn good player; too good to be unaware of the basic rules. He just didn't want to lose all those credits and tried to intimidate the lieutenant by bullying him."

"Well, he certainly didn't succeed," the Andorian remarked dryly. "The lieutenant very nearly killed him with his bare hands. Mr. Gar has a badly bruised windpipe and only a tracheotomy could save h is life. He'll press charges, I'm sure about it, and that'll be bad for the lieutenant." She shook her head. "Frankly, I don't understand why he reacted so… so brutally."

"I think I do," the pilot said quietly. "Check your security cameras, and you'll see, too. The _boray_ came up close and physical, but the lieutenant tried to calm him down at first, explaining the rules to him again."

"What triggered the attack then?" the Andorian wondered.

The pilot shrugged. "I'm not really sure. The _boray_ poked him in the chest, and it seemed that he was hurt by it. After the third or second time, the hoof must have hit a sore spot, I think. The lieutenant's face went blank – I don't think he even _saw_ whom he was facing anymore – and then he lunged. I don't know why, but I can tell you one thing: he was in blind panic. I've never seen anything like that in my life, and trust me, I've seen a lot."

"Hmmm…" the Andorian was quiet for a moment, her antennae trembling with concentration. "You see, Sergeant," she then said, "I was one of those who'd found Lieutenant Doe two years ago. I know in what shape he was and that he had most likely been badly mistreated. That's why I came to investigate this case myself. I'm sure that some really traumatic memory was triggered by the Tellarite's aggressivity. I'm willing to cut the lieutenant as much slack as possible, but I can't ignore the facts. He _has_ inured Mr. Gar severely. Something has to be done."

"I'm willing to give testimony that the _boray_ attacked him first, without reason," the pilot said. "He overreacted, that's true. But he was deadly afraid."

"That might not help him much when the Tellarite pressed charges," the Andorian said.

The pilot glared at her. "Then you should see that he doesn't. The last thing the lieutenant needs right now is an investigation."

The Andorian wiggled her antennae nervously. "That's not that simple, Sergeant. Personally, I have no sympathy to waste on Tellarites, no Andorian has, but Mr. Gar _is_ justified to press charges. The lieutenant, as you've said yourself, _has_ overreacted."

"It was the _boray_ who started the overreacting," the pilot riposted. "He falsely accused the lieutenant of cheating, _and_ he was the one who laid hand – well, hoof – on the lieutenant first."

"I understand _that_," the Andorian blew out a frustrated sigh. "But the fact is, the Tellarite nearly died, and the lieutenant isn't even hurt."

"Not physically, perhaps," the pilot grumbled, "but he's in a very bad shape. Even a blind man can see that."

The Andorian shrugged. "We're talking in circles, Sergeant. This conversation brings us nowhere. I'll hand in my report to Commodore Hunter – she'll have to decide what needs to be done about the lieutenant. Good day!"

She collected her notes and left. The pilot walked over to the couch, squatted down and looked at his guest worriedly. He had a plain, round face, like that of a friendly, overfed dog, kind brown eyes and a thick moustache.

"Hey," he said gently. "I see you're awake. How do you feel?"

"Awful," Gabriel, who wasn't feeling a bit like Lieutenant Doe at the moment, admitted. He truly felt so… so _lost_. "I think I had a nightmare… or something like that."

"Not a nightmare," the pilot said, "a flashback of some sort. It must have been really bad – you went completely insane with panic in a micron and almost killed that _boray_."

"Oh, no…" Gabriel groaned, closing his eyes. He'd always known that could happen, the doctors had warned him, but he'd managed to avoid an incident like that… so far.

"You don't remember, do you?" the pilot asked kindly.

"Not a thing," Gabriel admitted, "not since I came back from patrol around noon. Damn, and I was getting better – or so I thought."

"Perhaps you _are_ getting better," the pilot said. "Flashbacks usually mean that buried memories are starting to resurface."

"I wouldn't consider it getting better if I attack people and don't even remember," Gabriel replied dryly. "Can you tell me what happened, in a nutshell?"

The pilot did him the favour, and he groaned again in despair.

"If the commodore hears that, she'll take me off the squadron," he worried.

"You're jumping to conclusions," the pilot said soothingly.

"Am I?" Gabriel asked. "You're a pilot yourself; you know that only stable people can be trusted in the cockpit of a one-man-fighter. Can you imagine the effort it cost me to get there in the first place? Tests, simulations, shrinks poking around in my head… If they take me of now, I'll never get back."

"Let's hope it won't go so far," the pilot encouraged him. "I've already promised to give testimony that you were provoked. And I'm sure my colonel will put in a word for you by the commodore if I ask him."

"Why would he?" Gabriel asked gloomily. "And why would _you_, for that matter? Why did you interfere in the first place? You don't even know me!"

"True," the pilot sighed. "But firstly, that _boray_ tried to cheat you out of your winnings, and I can't stand people like him. And secondly… you remind me of a good friend I've lost during our flight."

Gabriel accepted that with a mental shrug. Only a fool would refuse help if it was given freely. Then something occurred to him.

"Hey, does it mean I can actually keep the credits I've won? Not that they'd be of any use in prison," his face fell at the realization. "Do you think they'll put me in prison? I… I don't think I could bear _that_…"

He felt the panic rising in his chest again, tightening his throat, but the pilot grabbed his shoulders with those large, warm hands – it felt oddly comforting.

"Don't lose it again, man!" he said. "You're not in a cell yet, and you won't get there if I can help it. Now, will you calm down, so that I can let go of you and give my colonel a call? He'll know what to do."

Gabriel swallowed hard, several times, then nodded. The pilot let go of him, went to the comm unit on the wall, next to the door, and punched in a code.

"Colonel, this is Jolly," he said. "Sir, we have a problem here."

TBC

* * *

**Colonial terms:**

_agrostation_ – farm

_apid – _hive insect "bee"

_avians_ – all sorts of birds

_boray_ – pig-faced, aggressive aliens; an insult

_crawlon_ – something like a spider, or probably an ant

_felix_ – a small domestic animal, "cat"

_furling_ – ant-eater, a moderate sized mammal feeding on insects

_furlough_ – military leave

_gallidian_ – some kind of domestic fowl, "hen"

_kava_ – a popular beverage, "coffee"

_lupine_ – a predator hunting in packs, "wolf"

_natal day _ – birthday

_pyramid_ – a game of cards and chance

_skeeton_ – noxious biting insect, probably a mosquito

_shorsa_ – a sweet pudding, rich and creamy

_vulpine_ – a small predator, like a fox


	7. Chapter 7 The Forced Hand

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

Captain Mandala Flynn and the USS _Magellan_ have been created by Vonda McIntyre and featured in several Star Trek novels. I've changed their final fate for the sake of this story, though.

Kreon is the computer technician named Komma (Jeff Mackay) from "The Gun on Ice Planet Zero". I changed his name because I thought it was silly. Tauran _troikas_ – three-way-marriages – can contain a husband and two wives or a wife and two husbands, depending on the group's decision.

* * *

**Chapter 07 – The Forced Hand**

"And what makes Jolly think that I'd know what to do in such a blasted situation?" Omega kept his voice low, as Aggie was already sleeping in the next room.

Athena raised a perfect eyebrow. "The fact that you are his commanding officer perhaps? Or that you usually _do_ know what to do, regardless of the situation?"

"Well, I'm fresh out of ideas," Omega growled. "So much for leaving Starbuck in his current, safe situation. Not _that_ safe, after all, it seems."

"He's certainly forced our hand with that incident yesterday," Athena agreed. "But we can't let Station Security put him in prison. After what's just happened, he'd go completely mad in a cell."

"I'll break him out by force, if I have to," Omega said with determination, "but that wouldn't be very safe for him, either."

"No," Athena admitted. "The less attention he draws, the better for him. We could try to persuade the Tellarite worker _not_ to press charges – that would be the best."

"Of course it would be the best," Omega said, frustrated. "But how are you planning to achieve that?"

"Well, we can't make it public that he's one of us," Athena was thinking loudly. "That would bring his torturers right back on his track. I might have to employ some other diplomat to help us."

"Wouldn't it be better to let Commodore Hunter handle the situation?" Omega asked doubtfully. He didn't like the idea of any strangers getting involved.

Athena shook her head. "No, she'd have no other choice but making Starbuck the trial – and _that_ would be devastating right now, in more than one way. What we need is a Federation diplomat who not only is willing to declare Starbuck – I mean, Lieutenant Doe or whatever new name and identity we may create for him – as a citizen of his or her homeworld, but also capable of coming up with a convincing story about that reaction today."

"Do you have anyone on your mind?" Omega asked, still not really buying it. Athena gave him a rueful smile.

"To be honest, the only one I can think of would be Carolyn Palamas," she answered. "The recent upheaval on Alpha III might even provide us with a believable backstory. Carolyn is used to deal with critical situations; let's hope she can think of something."

"Yes, but is she going to help us?" Omega wondered. "And if she is, how much are you going to tell her?"

"Just the bare bones of the whole thing," Athena said simply.

Omega sighed. "I don't know… it's an awful risk we'll be taking with that step."

"True, but if we don't do anything, Starbuck will end up in prison, and he wouldn't survive that," Athena pointed out. "Besides, Lieutenant Palamas will leave for the _Enterprise_ shortly, so that people won't get the chance to ask any further questions."

"Let's assume she's willing to help, then," Omega said. "What are you planning to offer that Tellarite in exchange for dropping his charges?"

Athena shrugged. "Financial compensation. Works every time. People are generally greedy."

"Poor Starbuck," Omega smiled involuntarily. "He finally wins a small fortune, and then he'll have to give it up, just to save his hide. That's going to make him furious, whether he's himself or not."

"I'm not planning to give the winnings to that _boray_," Athena said icily. "He had no right to demand them in the first place, and I don't intend to strengthen his misconception that he had. What he did was just as unlawful as Starbuck's throttling him half-dead. No, he'll get the compensation according to Federation law and not a fracking cubit more."

"Which still could be more than what Starbuck has, with or without his winnings," Omega reminded her.

"I know," Athena nodded soberly. "But he won't have to pay it. He's always been part of our family, and we can afford to buy him free, even though he won't know where the money really came from. He's going to need his credits for living anyway, because I don't believe he'd be back in a fighter any time soon."

"That will be hard on him," Omega said. "He _lives_ for flying, he always has."

"Let's hope he'll be again, one day, and in a Viper, where he truly belongs," Athena replied. "But first we have to hide and to protect him. He's got a great deal of healing to do, and that can only be done in peace and safety."

"Which would be – where exactly?" Omega asked, his eyes dark with concern.

"I don't know," Athena sighed. "I haven't thought so far yet. Let's deal with the current crisis first. We can make long-term plans when I've talked to Father."

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Hunter, understandably, was _not_ happy when she learned about the incident. But she wasn't ready to sacrifice her best combat pilot any more than Athena or Omega. She'd been the commander of a fighting squadron for a decade or longer; she knew that the strongest man could break under too much pressure. The question was now, how to deal with the aftermath, and she was glad to have help with that.

"I've studied the security cam records," she said to Omega. "The Tellarite was wrong, indeed, and he _had_ cornered the lieutenant. If we have to, I'll threaten him that Lieutenant Doe will press charges as well."

Omega shook his head. "We can't allow the case to come to any sort of court. Lieutenant Doe won't be able to hold through a trial."

"Yeah, but Mr. Gar doesn't know that," Hunter replied with a wolfish grin.

"Still," Omega insisted, "we can't take the risk."

"I agree," Carolyn Palamas intervened. "We can't calculate how stable the lieutenant is at the moment. A complete mental breakdown can't be ruled out. He must _not_ be investigated."

"You won't hear any argument from us," Athena said, "but can you suggest a way out of it? One that might even work?"

"I believe I can," Palamas answered. "I had the night to think about it, and I hope I've found a solution. But firs you must answer a few questions."

"What questions?" Omega asked warily.

Palamas gave him one of her bedazzling smiles.

"Nothing about his true identity, obviously, since that's the very thing you want to keep confidential," she replied. "But can you vouch for his character? That he won't discredit me or my government in any way? I'm taking some risks myself here, by intervening, you know."

"We can," Athena said firmly. "He's a gambler and a womanizer, that's true, but he's loyal and honest in anything that counts, and he's 'as reliable as antigravs', as you Starfleet folks like to say."

"Very well," Palamas nodded. "In that case, I do have the solution. We'll create him a new identity, complete with citizenship from Alpha III and an elaborate background."

"You can do that?" Hunter asked doubtfully.

"Of course," Palamas said with a broad smile. "Remember the USS _Magellan_?"

"It was a small research ship under the command of Captain Mandala Flynn that got lost on a deep space mission beyond Sector G-132, wasn't it?" Hunter asked back. Palamas nodded.

"Not exactly _lost_," she said. "The _Magellan_ got caught in a violent ion storm, crashed onto an uninhibited Class L planet and his entire crew died, with the exception of Captain Flynn and two ensigns from Stellar Cartography. They couldn't even launch the lifepods."

"That's tragic, but how is that going to help us?" omega asked.

"The _Magellan_'s chief helmsman was a pilot from Alpha III, by the name of Gregory Demos," Palamas explained. "He was a loner without family or friends, not even from Alpha III itself but from one of the asteroid colonies that are known to be a bit… lash at keeping their records. Now, did you say the only thing your Lieutenant Doe remembers is his given name, and that would be Gabriel?"

Hunter nodded. "That is correct."

"Good," Palamas said. "We'll simply declare that the records were incorrect, and that Lieutenant Demos' name was in fact not Gregory but Gabriel. It's such an easy mistake to make, isn't it? And not one of any significance. Now, how old is this pilot of yours?"

"We don't know for sure," Athena said, "he's an orphan of unknown origins. But thirty, thirty-two would be the best estimate, the doctors say."

"That could work," Palamas nodded. "Lieutenant Demos would be thirty-eight right now. And he was green-eyed, with dark blond hair. Or light brown, depending on your point of view."

"Our man is a blue-eyed blond," Athena said. "That's not such a big difference. But how are you going to resurrect Lieutenant Demos after… how long?"

"Almost four years," Palamas replied. "That won't be a problem. We'll tell everyone that the original rescue team has overlooked the _one_ lifepod that had been ejected, and that Lieutenant Demos survived with a memory loss. Which part would even be true."

"That would be a bit much of a coincidence," Omega remarked. "Not only a mistake about his given name, but also a mistaken identification of his body…"

"Not really," Palamas shrugged. "Mistakes like that _do_ happen, especially during hurried rescue missions, Starfleet doesn't like to admit it, but that's the truth, nevertheless."

"What about Captain Flynn and the other survivors of the _Magellan_?" Omega asked. "If nobody else, _they_ will know the truth."

"Mandala Flynn has been promoted and is now the commander of a Starbase on the other side of the Federation, near the Romulan border," Palamas replied. "The two ensigns reconsidered their career choice and returned to Vulcan. So, as long as you don't try to sell your man as a genuine Starfleet officer, there's no way anyone could reveal him as a pretender. Even less so if you let him believe that he is, in fact, Lieutenant Demos."

"Wouldn't that lead to other identity problems?" Hunter asked.

"As long as he doesn't remember his real past… no, it wouldn't," Palamas said. "And even if he starts to remember, I can arrange genuine Alpha III citizenship for him. Demos is a very frequent name on my homeworld, we can integrate him without the need to keep up his false identity. _That_'s just a temporary solution to explain his presence on this Base."

Athena and Omega exchanged a look. Genuine Federation citizenship would mean long-term protection for Starbuck. He could remain on the Starbase with a firmly established new identity, even if his memory returned. He'd have the support of the huge, well-oiled Federation apparatus – and yet remain within reach.

"As you said: it could work," Athena said carefully. "We're extremely grateful for your help."

Palamas smiled. "You're welcome. I'll go now and have a chat with the Tellarite ambassador, and then we can work out the details together."

"Do you need help to bully the Tellarites into cooperation?" Hunter inquired sweetly.

"Oh, no," Palamas laughed. "I'll take Lieutenant M'Botabwe with me – there's nothing scarier than a Starfleet lawyer. And Ming-Khai is worse than the average. She can quote precedents of interstellar law by heart, back to two hundred years, and she's never wrong. Frankly, she sometimes even scares _me_."

**x x x x x x x x x x xx x x x x**

Gabriel Doe had spent the night in the Colonial pilot's rented quarters, fighting nightmares when he slept and panic attacks when he was awake. The pilot – Sergeant Jolly, what a strange name, he thought absently – had endured his hysterics in a friendly, supportive manner, forced him to eat some sticky sweats he called _mushies_ 'to soothe your nerves', and played pyramid with him to distract him. With very little success, truth be told.

In the entire morning, he'd been waiting for Station Security to arrest him, but they never came. Around noon, Sergeant Jolly finally got a call from his colonel, who told him to get something to eat for his 'guest' and then appear with him on the consulate of Alpha III, at 15.00 station time.

That was something of a surprise. Gabriel couldn't remember having ever had anything to do with anyone from Alpha III, and Jolly, who hadn't studied the worlds of the Federation, knew even less.

"At least it's not the brig," Gabriel shrugged philosophically. "Let's have lunch and then see what they want from us."

He wasn't really hungry, in fact, he doubted that he'd be able to force down anything but a drink, but he had the feeling that his friendly host needed to be fed on a regular basis to keep going. He didn't know why; he'd only met the guy the previous night. Yet it felt as if they'd known each other for decades.

Thus they had lunch in the mess hall of the border patrol, and then they caught the station shuttle to get to the Centaurian Embassy Pier, where the consulate of Alpha III was situated. The two worlds had been friends and allies since the beginnings of the Federation, and so they often shared diplomatic facilities – like here.

A secretary led them to a small office that had the clear lines of a Greek temple, with large windows and the marble busts of ancient philosophers and warlords in each corner. A stunningly beautiful blonde woman, wearing a gravity-defying, shimmering turquoise gown that made their knees weak, rose from a low couch to greet them.

"Gentleman, I greet you on the behalf of the government of Alpha III," she said. "I', special Emissary Carolyn Palamas, and this," she gestured towards the equally attractive Asian-American woman in black uniform who was sitting behind the computerized desk, "is Lieutenant Ming-Khai M'Botabwe, from Starfleet's Justice Division."

The pretty lawyer gave them a wordless nod but didn't move. Gabriel felt his stomach clench with anxiety. Lawyers could never mean any good. Perhaps he _would_ be sent to prison, after all…

He felt Jolly's soothing hand on his back and somehow managed to pull himself together.

"My pleasure, ma'am," he got out with some effort.

"Before we come to the actual reason for your presence here," Palamas continued, "I want to put your mind at ease concerning yesterday's… incident. I've spoken to the Tellarite ambassador on your behalf, and he agreed _not_ to press charges – in exchange for financial compensation."

"Which means no prison, but I'll probably be broke for the rest of my life," Gabriel shrugged, giddy with relief. "I can live with that. But, forgive my asking, what have _you_ to do with my case? Not that I'm not grateful," he added hastily, "I just don't _understand_."

"Well, the interrogation has led to _one_ positive result, after all," Palamas replied. "A genetic search through Starfleet databases has shown that you are, in fact, Lieutenant Gabriel Demos, from the Helot asteroid colony of Alpha III."

"I am?" none of the names mentioned meant a thing for him.

Palamas nodded. "Apparently. There was a mistake concerning your given name in the database: it was recorded as Gregory, which is part of the reason why we haven't found you earlier."

"I see," he still couldn't quite get it. "And how did I end up here with no memory at all?"

"We're not really sure," Palamas admitted. "The last known fact is that you were the chief pilot of the USS _Magellan_, a deep-space exploration vessel that was destroyed in an ion storm some four years ago. The survivors – all three of them – were found months later. You were believed dead, although not all the bodies could be identified. Some of them were simply annihilated when the warp core of the ship explored. We don't know what you've done in the time between the _Magellan_'s destruction and your appearance here – it must have been bad. But at least we know now who you are."

"I see," was the only thing he could say again. Not that he'd mistrust her, but the whole thing was too much, too sudden, too… _convenient_. He needed to dig deeper. "Do I have any family?"

Palamas shook her head. "According to our records you're not married, and your parents died when you were a small child – three or four years old, I think."

"Thought so," he said a bit wistfully. "Does this mean I'm a Federation citizen then?"

"Well, that's a bit complicated," Palamas admitted. "You've been officially declared dead, which means your citizenship has been deleted from the records. But you can reapply any time, and I'll approve, of course, within the usual processing time of thirty days. In fact, I'll approve it right away, as I'll have to leave the station in four days."

"Please read these application forms carefully," the lawyer spoke for the first time, "and sign them if you find everything in the right order."

One of the documents was in Greek, the other the Standard translation of it verified by a notary and signed by Hunter as the ranking Federation official of the Starbase. It contained his date of birth, which, again, didn't ring a bell, his name (at least the given name was familiar), and his current address, which was, of course, the Starbase. Other than that, it was a simple request to reinstate his citizenship on Alpha III.

It seemed harmless enough, so he signed both documents, although it bothered him that he couldn't either read or understand the Greek one. He'd have to refresh his knowledge about the official language of Alpha III. Hell, as much as he knew, it could have even been his mother tongue – although, for some reason, he doubted it.

"Very well," Palamas glanced at his signature and signed the documents herself. "you'll receive your copies – and those of my approval – in a day or two. I have to run it through the Central Record Archive of Alpha III, but there shouldn't be any complications. I've got sufficient authority to reinstate you as our citizen."

He nodded, accepting his good luck for the time being. He would think about the hows and whys later. But the emissary had mentioned something else that had almost escaped his attention.

"Erm… have you said I'm a Starfleet officer?" he asked. It seemed a bit unlikely to him, not that he could have named the reason.

"You _used to be_ one," the lawyer said. "When you were declared dead, your officer's patent has been revoked."

"Can I apply for it again?" he asked. The two women exchanged compassionate looks.

"You can try," Palamas answered, "but it would do you no good. Let's face it, Lieutenant, in your current state you won't be fit for duty. Not even close. A combat pilot from the border patrol of a Starbase out in nowhere _might_ get away with a stunt like the one you've performed yesterday – a Starfleet officer would be released from duty, effective immediately."

He nodded in understanding. A fighter pilot couldn't cause much damage when he lost it – well, he might shoot someone accidentally, but that wasn't such a big risk. The chief helmsman of a starship, on the other hand, could kill dozens, even hundreds, with a single mistake. At the moment, he was an unacceptable risk everywhere but in the cockpit of a Tennet-5.

Well, as long as they let him climb into the cockpit of a Tennet-5, he could live with _that_, too.

"I've got one more question," he said. "How am I supposed to pay that financial compensation? At the moment, I've nothing but the credits I won yesterday, and I doubt they would let me keep them. Or did I have savings back on Alpha III?"

"Some," Palamas replied, "and I'll try to extract them from the State, including four years' worth of interests."

"But that will take some time," he said, concerned.

"True," she agreed, "but the consulate will give you a loan until then. We take care of our people, Lieutenant. I regret that it took us so long to find you – consider it as a compensation from our side."

"Will I be allowed to return to the border patrol?" he asked. At the moment, that was the most urgent question he could think of.

"Not right away, I'm afraid," Palamas answered seriously. "Your reaction _was_ extreme yesterday. Commodore Hunter wants to be sure – well, as sure as one _can_ be – that you're not a risk for yourself and for your comrades."

"Oh, great," he sighed, "just what I needed. More tests. More shrinks. More poking around in my head – as if it wasn't messed up already."

"I know it's not always pleasant," Palamas said. "But can you state with good conscience that it's _not_ necessary?"

"No," he admitted, a little uncomfortably. "I just don't think it would be of any use. It never has."

"Well, you can't be certain," Palamas said. "And besides, you can't avoid it. So make the best of it. Let them ask their questions and make their tests, so that you can get back in your fighter as soon as they declare you stable enough."

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Dr. Salik had been searching the database ever since returning from Starbase 7. Nominally, he was doing this to help with Dr. Sekhet's research, which was as good a guise as they could come up with, and the Vulcan geneticist had even accompanied him aboard the _Galactica_ to make it seem more convincing. But the database was _huge_, containing an incredible amount of data collected over several yahrens, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that they were running out of time.

On the fourth day, he reluctantly gave in and drafted Technician Kreon, the lead computer specialist of the _Galactica_ to help them, hoping and praying that it hadn't been a mistake. Kreon was a simple and friendly guy from some Taurean agrostation and wouldn't swat a _crawlon_, but he also liked to boast about the importance of his work and his person – and his two wives were the biggest gossips on the entire ship.

Granted, they weren't _aboard_ the ship anymore, thank the Lords of Kobol (not that Salik would believe in _those,_ having been a die-hard agnostic from his youngest yahren on). They were managing their own little agrostation down on New Taura and raising their children. But Kreon was an incurable gossip himself who chatted with his wives every evening – one couldn't trust him with anything that hadn't been announced on all twelve Colonies on the previous day.

So, Salik had reason to hesitate before calling for his help, but in the end, necessity forced him to do so. Kreon came to the Life Center in his usual, annoyingly cheerful mood, happy to be of assistance (updating the ship's databases with Federation data was useful but not terribly interesting). His round, brown eyes, already the size of dinner plates, grew impossibly wide seeing the search parameters – actually, very complicated DNA sequences – running on every available viewscreen.

Due to the capacity of his superior Vulcan brain, Dr. Sekhet was capable of monitoring half a dozen of those screens alone, but Salik was not so fortunate, which was the reason why he needed help. By employing Kreon's, he could at least hope that his handlanger wouldn't understand _what_ they were searching for.

That didn't keep the young man from asking stupid questions, of course.

"Holy frack!" he exclaimed in open-mouthed bewilderment. "What are you doing here, looking for the Lost Prince of Aquaria?"

Salik snorted. The royal house of Aquaria had died out more than a hundred and sixty yahrens ago, but the Aquarians still stubbornly insisted that they were a monarchy. Legends about bastard sons of the last king – who'd died of old age and supposedly childless – had resurfaced in irregular intervals, just to turn out as pretence after the proper medical checks.

The funny truth was that President Darius actually _was_ related to the now extinct royal house, but kingship couldn't be inherited through the female line, so there was no chance whatsoever to find anyone with a legitimate claim for the throne. The whole thing was fairly ridiculous anyway, but people loved such legends, and they didn't harm anyone, so Salik simply ignored them.

Dr. Sekhet, on the other hand, hadn't recognized Kreon's question as a rhetoric one – or pretended not to recognize it. Salik had learned long ago that it was hard to read whether Vulcans were honestly flabbergasted or just making fun of humans… while _fun_ seemed to have a completely different meaning in their vocabulary. In any case, the geneticist decided to answer the young man's question in the typical, earnest – and extremely detailed – manner of his kind.

"Chasing after legends without any scientific foundation would be a waste of time, Mr. Kreon, and therefore highly illogical," he declared with a blank face. "What we are doing here is a general search for specific genetic patterns with the ultimate goal of digitally modelling hidden similarities between the overall genetic make-up of the respective Colonial tribes. Based on my previous research, I have established the scientific theorem that intermarriage between two tribes can result in very specific genetic modifications among the entirety of the population, and the current research serves to verify my theory – or to prove it wrong."

It took Kreon several centons to manage to speak again, after having opened and closed his mouth a few times, without getting out a sound.

"You mean you're not even sure you're right?" he asked, picking up the last sentence, which was about the only one he's understood.

"That is correct," the Vulcan replied with dignity, and Salik needed all his willpower to remain serious. He knew the Vulcan had been spewing nonsense, in order to confuse the young man – for a race supposedly incapable of outright lies, Vulcans were surprisingly good at obfuscating indeed.

"But… but you've been working on this for four _days_!" Kreon exclaimed. "And all that work could be for nothing if your theory turns out wrong?"

"That is also correct," the Vulcan agreed calmly. "It would be unfortunate, of course, but this is the only known way to gather hard scientific evidence. Your help will be most appreciated," he added, and Kreon backed off rapidly before he'd have been subjected to another 'scientific' explanation.

"Ummm… Dr. Salik, I think it would be better if _you_ showed me what to do," he muttered.

Never before had _anyone_ managed to make the verbose computer chief shut up so quickly. _Maybe it has its advantages to be a Vulcan_, Salik thought, leading the young man to another set of viewscreen and showing him what he was supposed to watch for.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8 Conspiracies

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

Commander Xaviar (Richard Lynch) has been borrowed from the ill-remembered "Galactica 1980". He was about the only character of interest there, and it'd have been a waste to leave him there.

_Lieutenant_ Troy (Mickalean McCormick) would have been the adult Boxey in Richard Hatch's "Second Coming". I promoted him and turned him into an original character. _Siress_ Aeriana is an original character, "played" by Joan Collins as her most devious Alexis self from "Denver". The identity of the other two conspirators will be revealed later.

_Metric_ is the Colonial equivalent of a kilometer, although I've seen the word _kilometron_, too. A _dodecada_ is a time unit of 12 yahrens.

* * *

**Chapter 08 – Conspiracies**

In one of the recently built, spacious estate houses of _Ultima Thule_, the capital (and so far only) city of New Scorpia, an exclusive meeting was taking place. The host of the meeting was a deceivingly mild-faced, emaciated, old-line politician from before the Destruction. He also happened to be the head of one of the most ancient, once most powerful patrician Houses of Scorpia; he was also all that had remained of his House. At the age of nearly a hundred yahrens, it was a sobering thought.

While nominally a democracy, Scorpia had always been ruled by the Great Houses, some of which supposedly could lead back their bloodlines to the Lords of Kobol themselves. However, the wielders of true power had always remained in the background, ruling through their influence rather than through visible presence. Not even their true names had been common knowledge; they had chosen a simple one for daily use, and few people could ever make the connection.

Like his fellow patricians, the old man had always remained in the background, so that nobody would suspect his involvement in a surprising number of questionable actions that had been going on behind the scenes ever since the late President Adar had called for the Renaissance to usher in a new golden age. Nonetheless, those who knew him from close acquaintance (and those were few in number) also knew that he was one of the shrewdest players in the power game, one that had to be counted with.

In fact, he'd been aide-to-camp to _Sire_ Adar for a long time, having supported the President's actions in reducing the budget for defence, with the argument that peace had never before been accomplished because the military had too much interest in the continued conflict. At the same time, however, he'd kept good contacts to the highest military leaders, like Commanders Adama, Cain or Kronus, which had brought him the office of the President after the Destruction, when a temporary assemblage of newly-appointed Councillors had formed a new _Quorum_.

He'd ruled the survivors of the Twelve Worlds during the long flight from the Cylons, on their pilgrimage to Earth, constantly struggling to wrest back the real power from the military, never truly believing that Earth would exist in the first place, and even less that they would find it. Earth was a legend that Adama had used to keep up the hopes of a desperate people and to keep them going – nothing more.

Had he known that they would find it, and so soon, he'd have made his move a lot earlier, instead of allowing that greedy idiot Uri or that hot-headed fool Gamesh to try their hands on the game. He'd thought he had time – that had been a mistake, something that he couldn't have taken into consideration.

It didn't matter, though. Old he might be, but he was still there, and while the new situation demanded more careful moves – the many observers of the Federation could seriously endanger his plans – it also offered new alliances. More powerful ones than he'd had for a long time.

First, however, he needed to knot some loose ties. Starting with re-establishing old alliances that had been neglected during the last two yahrens of hectic rebuilding. He needed people whom he could trust. Granted, those were not very numerous, but they were powerful, shrewd and ruthless.

At the moment, he had three of those in his atrium: the oldest ones, who'd held loyalty to him for _dodecadas_, and so well-concealed that nobody had ever learned about their connection. He still had others on his list, also in important positions, but they could wait. These three came first.

The most important among them was the silver-haired military governor of New Sagittara. He'd come in civilian disguise, but his entire posture was practically screaming professional warrior, even with one of his sleeves hanging empty. The old politician suppressed as smile. The commander could have had replaced that arm he'd lost in the Battle of Molecay, Federation biotechnology made such reconstructions possible. But Xaviar stubbornly refused to let go of the visible proof of his useless heroism – it made him a living legend in the eyes of his people.

_Not that he'd need it_, the old man thought with a barely visible shake of his head. While considered a democracy, in truth Sagittara had been ruled by the military since the beginning of the Thousand Yahren War – and _that_ hadn't changed in their new home, either. But if Xaviar wanted to enter a popularity contest with the civilian opposition (an opposition that never had the chance to get the upper hand, unless the Whole Sagittarian Statutes got turned upside down), who was _he_ to hinder the man in such small pleasures? Xaviar's position as the planetary leader was as stable as any position could be, and that was what mattered.

Yes; the Chief Warlord of New Sagittara was a useful and trustworthy ally, but a way too visible one. In really sensitive matters the old man preferred to depend on the two women currently accompanying them.

_Siress_ Berenice, whose true name was only known to him and to some old archivists in these days, as she used a much more mundane one in public, was a woman about his own age; the last spawn of a once incredibly powerful family. Her originally blonde hair was so mixed with silver now that it would have been hard to guess its original colour. Nonetheless, like blondes usually did, she looked considerably younger than her actual age. She wore clothes of subdued elegance, very unlike her usual public appearance, and a somewhat watery smile that never really reached her cold blue eyes.

_Siress_ Aeriana, a middle-aged, olive-skinned Arian noblewoman with the jet-black hair and jewelled eyes of her tribe, belonged to a younger generation of power-players. She'd learned the art of scheming at her mother's knees and had been an active player since her coming of age. Not only was she the most ruthless of them all, she'd also managed to raise her own following of equally ruthless dependents who'd follow her orders without a blink of an eye. Regardless of her usefulness, though, she lacked that certain elusive finesse that made _Siress_ Berenice so unique.

The four of them were the masterminds behind the intricate web that had been woven since the Destruction. All the others were secondary players of various use and thus could be sacrificed when necessary. It was a heady feeling to know that, but the old man kept that feeling under tight control. Overconfidence could lead to spectacular failures, as _Sire_ Uri's example had shown, and he was _not_ willing to make the same mistake.

"Well, my friends," the old man said with his trademark patronizing nasality that had always driven his fellow Councillors crazy, "things seem to be moving forward again. We've made contact with Mu Leonis," he intentionally used the indigenous name of the Federation world to confuse eventual listeners, although he doubted that anyone would have placed listening devices in _his _house. "The preliminary negotiations have been closed. Soon, New Sagittara will be equipped with the most sophisticated defence systems of all our worlds – just like it was the case in our old home. We'll make the planet an unbreakable fortress, so that we'd have a safe place to retreat to. And then… then we'll make our move."

"That could take _yahrens_," the Sagittarian said with a dissatisfied scowl.

"It could… and it most likely will," the old man said calmly. "But we have time. We can't afford to ruin our chance by impatience as that greedy fool Uri had done over Carillon."

"That was too early and too spontaneous," _Siress_ Berenice agreed. The Sagittarian raised an eyebrow.

"That's how you see it? It was idiotic and suicidal, I would say. You couldn't have really planned to disarm our Fleet – well, what was left of it anyway – and expect the Cylons to become all nice and friendly because of that one self-destructive act. If I agreed with Adama in _one_ thing, which I do only reluctantly, it would be that one couldn't trust the Cylons."

"Of course not," the old man nodded calmly. "If anything, we've learned that much at Cimtar. Even those who'd been naïve enough to believe differently before."

"Why did you allow Uri to act freely then?" the Sagittarian demanded angrily, the old burn marks on his deformed face glowing in dark red as always when he got agitated.

"I had my reasons," the old man remained completely unfazed as ever. "First of all, Uri was already too far gone in his delusions of grandeur. Had I tried to stop him, he'd have tried to blackmail me into cooperation. I didn't want to give him the idea that he was in position to blackmail me into _anything_ – so I didn't give him the chance in the first place. Besides, letting him suffer a spectacular defeat helped to put him to his right place."

"That was an awfully big risk to take," the Sagittarian said accusingly.

The old man shrugged. "Not really. I knew Adama and Tigh would come up with something. They always did. They're no fools. The crisis also helped us to calculate the forces Adama could mobilize and the extent of his influence over the military. It was… informative. It helped us to plan our next moves better."

"And it only cost us a few dozen deads, eaten by the Ovion larvae," the Sagittarian commented bitterly.

The old man blinked at him with false benevolence but had a hard time to restrain himself. Military men always thought so two-dimensionally. Dealing with them could be really… tiring sometimes.

"What's wrong, my dear Xaviar?" he asked mildly. "Are you getting doubts about our goals?"

"Oh, I have no problems with _our_ goals at all," the Sagittarian replied with the same forced friendliness. "I just don't like _your_ methods sometimes, that's all." He rose. "Is there anything else? I have a planet to rule back home."

The other three stared at the closing door for a long time after his departure.

"He might become a problem, eventually," _Siress_ Aeriana said thoughtfully. Her jewelled eyes were cold like space itself.

"Perhaps in time," the old man allowed. "He's got used to the role of a hero… he's grown comfortable with it and forgets about his obligations sometimes. But he won't move against us. Not yet, not as long as the defence systems of New Sagittara aren't installed. _After_ that, though… yes, he _might_ become a problem."

"If he does, my dependents will be ready for him," Aeriana replied coldly.

"Removing him won't do us any good if we don't have a replacement ready," _Siress_ Berenice reminded the other two. "A vacuum of power would be most… impractical for us. We need new dependents on Sagittara."

"No," the old man said. "We need something better than just dependents. We need someone from an old military clan who is capable of independent thinking and is allied to us because it's in his best interest."

"That could be a problem," _Siress_ Aeriana said wryly. "Sagittarian military education doesn't exactly encourage _thinking_ of any kind, unless it's about strategy."

"True," the old man admitted, "although a good strategist could be of use. And there _are_ exceptions, even on Sagittara."

He looked at _Siress_ Berenice whose task it always had been to keep tab on promising candidates of the younger generation. She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"What about Troy?" she asked.

"Too young," Aeriana riposted promptly.

"But he's Sagittarian, the last twig of an old and well-respected clan," Berenice pointed out. "And highly decorated. He just made Strike Captain when the battlestar _Columbia_ was destroyed. He's also _very_ ambitious, with no hope for further promotion in the near future."

"He _is_ a possibility," the old man agreed. "We'll have to groom him carefully for his future position, though."

Berenice shrugged. "You have the best possible bait in your hand to tempt such a young stud. It would serve them both."

"Perhaps," the old man said. "But she's a dark equine, just like her father was. Right now, she's ours, out of hurt pride and disappointment. But she's used to get her own way in everything. She might turn against us just as easily."

"That would be unfortunate… for her," Aeriana commented icily. Berenice shook her head.

"Not for her alone, I'm afraid. We can't afford too many… unfortunate accidents in our proximity. That could draw unwanted attention, which we must avoid at all costs." She thought about it for a centon, then apparently came to a decision. "There's another way. Slower but less risky. I can introduce them to each other socially."

"That would work?" Aeriana doubted.

"Why not?" Berenice asked back. "They are both about the same age, both ambitious, both frustrated… once he swallows the bait, we can begin to pull him closer. And _she_ would jump at the chance to nail someone of position, good breeding… and good looks."

They both looked expectantly at the old man who nodded.

"It _could_ work," he judged. "And it would look like a natural thing, not to mention keeping her occupied. Very well. Let's give it a try. Is there anything else?"

"Uri," Aeriana prompted. "How long are we going to drag him with us? He's played his role and not to well, I may add. He's nothing but dead weight now."

The old man shrugged. "He _was_ re-elected, which secures us the cooperation of Leonis. He still has some use – for now. We'll use him as a pawn as long as we need him. then we'll throw him to the lupines."

"The sooner the better," Berenice murmured worriedly. "He's too great a risk. He knows too much. He knows you – and he knows _me_. The _real_ me. I don't like it."

"Neither do I," the old man admitted. "I was against Adar sharing all our secrets with him from the beginning, but our late President wasn't exactly the kind of man who'd listen to his aides. But we can't get rid of Uri right now. Not before we learn for certain what happened to Gamesh."

"Gamesh is dead," Aeriana said impatiently. "I have witnesses who saw his shuttle explode just short the Fleet. There was nothing left but glowing pieces of metal. Those people who reported sightings of him must have been on _bliss_."

"Perhaps," the old man said. "But we must not give up the search. The man had been a politician since his youngest adult yahrens, and he used to work with Uri before he decided he was the Libran saviour. You should never underestimate a high-ranking member of the Libran oligarchy. They are tough and they are shrewd – and they have connections."

"Very well," Aeriana shrugged. "We'll keep looking for him. Although I think it's a waste of time and resources."

"We _do_ have the time," the old man replied sharply, "and they're _my_ resources to waste."

"Very true," Aeriana agreed primly. "Well, if that was all, I'm due to visit the _Orion_ today. Someone has to keep our self-proclaimed matriarch updated."

The old man nodded, and the Arian Councillor took her leave. Berenice stayed for a moment longer.

"The young ones are getting impertinent, Antiochus," she said calling him on his true name nobody else knew any longer; the two of them had been allies and sometimes lovers for almost eighty yahrens by now. "They don't want to be led and guided anymore. They want to go their own way."

"They underestimate their elders," the old man said. "They will learn what a big mistake that could be. That they can be replaced, like everyone else. Not yet… but as soon as the next generation is ready to take their place."

"What will _that_ happen?" Berenice asked doubtfully. "We're _old_, Antiochus. Soon, we won't have the strength to keep all ties in our hands, and our allies are wavering."

"They are getting nervous that they won't have the chance to come to true power before the young lionets grow strong enough to show their claws," the old man said with a chilling smile. "Perhaps they are right. We still have a few yahrens left to raise our successors – young and strong and determined ones. We shall leave our stamp on the New Colonies, worry not. Our work will survive us."

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

Thousands of _metrics_ away, aboard the _Galactica_, Dr. Salik was still working in his lab in the Life Center. He'd sent Kreon back to his quarters centares ago. Even the unwearying Dr. Sekhet had left to perform his daily meditations, without which no Vulcan could lead an ordered life in the long run. But Salik couldn't stop working. He had the strong feeling that he was close to his goal, very close.

They'd gone through the entire medical database. They'd filtered out everyone with a purely monotribal parentage. They'd filtered out the hybrids _without_ a Leonid parent and ordered the remaining files in twelve piles, according to the tribe of the other parent. Salik was now checking out every single one of those piles.

He'd started with Caprican hybrids, based on the simple fact that Starbuck was one of those himself- When he hadn't found anything, he began to go through every pile systematically, fully expecting to spend the night in the lab. It wouldn't be the first time.

He'd been through seven piles already, and his eyes started to tear up from sheer exhaustion when he finally found the right file. When he saw the name, he frowned and asked the computer for the patient's family tree. It was a long and complicated one. He studied the last three generations and checked them for possible Leonid connections.

There was only one – the same patient whose file he'd sought for and finally found. But it still didn't answer his question, so he checked the Leonid side of the family, which produced an equally long and complicated family tree. He asked the computer to compare the two family trees for possible intersections – and the seemingly random details suddenly slid into place with an almost audible _click_. Like a kaleidoscope after a curious child had shaken it thoroughly.

_Shaken_ was the right expression for Salik's own state of mind, too. He fell onto a stool heavily and stared into the emptiness of his lab in deep shock.

"Sagan," he murmured to the universe in general, "what in Hades have we gotten ourselves into?"

But the universe, as usual, failed to give him an answer.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9 Curiosity Killed the Cat

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

Lt. Tristan is another borrowed character from Richard Hatch's "Second Coming".

Sorry for the shortness of this chapter – this seemed a good place to finish it. The next one will hopefully be later and more informative.

* * *

**Chapter 08 – Curiosity Killed the Cat**

In spite of his previous expectations, Flight Sergeant Jolly had to admit that being on sick leave wasn't half as bad as he'd thought it would be. Of course, the fact that he wasn't _really_ ill and that the reason for his presence on the Starbase was to keep an eye on Starbuck _did_ count.

To keep up appearances, ha had to go to regular therapy sessions in the Starfleet medical facility every other day. But working on his food-cravings with the friendly (not to mention extremely hot) Deltan therapists was very different from the last time he'd spent in the Life Center – when that alien virus had nearly killed him, Boomer, and almost every other pilot in the wing.

"It's really rather nice," he explained to Gabriel – that was the name they'd agreed to use, as Starbuck couldn't get used to 'Lieutenant Demos' at all. "They help me relive my childhood memories – they're all telepathic, you know – and stay on my side during the whole process. I don't have to talk to them at all; somehow, in the end I get to see each selected memory from outside, and after a while they… they just don't hurt so much anymore. 'Reintegrating forgotten memories' they call it."

"And you don't mind them poking around in your head?" Gabriel asked doubtfully.

"They don't 'poke around'," Jolly explained patiently, remembering all too well how much _Starbuck_ had always hated psychotechs and their 'useless tricks', as he'd called it. "It's more like… as if you had closed doors in your mind, doors you don't even know previously to exist, much less _where_ they are, and if someone would help you to find them and open them. That's all they do. That, and helping you to distance yourself from the memories."

Gabriel shot him a suspicious look. "Are you trying to talk me into therapy?"

"Would I have the slightest chance to succeed?" Jolly grinned, fully expecting the usual, emphatic '_Not in seven hells!_' as an answer.

This time, however, Gabriel just shrugged uncertainly.

"I'm not sure," he replied. "They seem to be a great help for _you_; and besides, a bald lady _is_ something… different, isn't she?"

Jolly shook his head in fond exasperation. _Gabriel_ might have forgotten his entire past, but there still was an awful lot of _Starbuck_ left in him.

"Forget it," he said. "Deltans don't start affairs with 'sexually inferior species', as they prefer to phrase it."

"Sexually _inferior_ species?" the tone was so indignantly Starbuck's it almost hurt. "I'll show them _inferior_!"

"Don't even _think_ about it, Bucko!" the old nickname slipped so naturally from Jolly's mouth that he didn't even realize at once what he'd done. "You wouldn't survive it."

In the next micron he could have kicked himself for such a careless lapse. But Gabriel didn't comment on it; as if he'd been used to that nickname all his life. Which he had, actually – he just couldn't remember it anymore.

"What made you change your mind?" Jolly asked hastily, mostly to distract his oblivious friend from his own lapse.

"I want to know who I _really_ am," Gabriel answered, after such a long pause that Jolly had begun to wonder if he'd ever get one.

"I thought that's been cleared just recently?" he commented.

Gabriel shook his head. "Nah, I don't think so. Something just doesn't feel… right about the whole affair. It's all too easy, too smooth, too… convenient."

"Man, Gabriel!" Jolly stomped down on his own panic hurriedly. "You shouldn't ask for trouble. Had the Special Emissary not found your file, you'd have ended up in prison – on in the asylum of Elba II – for nearly killing that _boray_."

"True," Gabriel agreed readily enough. "But was that really _my_ file she dug out in the last moment from somewhere?"

"Who else's could it have been?" Jolly asked reasonably. "And why should she claim you were one of her people if you were _not_?

Gabriel shrugged. "I haven't got the faintest idea. And _that_ makes me crazy. There's something they're not telling me. Several somethings, in fact, or so I believe."

"Has the thought ever occurred to you that they might act in your best interest?" Jolly asked slowly. "To protect you, perhaps?"

"Protect me from whom? Or what?" Gabriel riposted, although he should have known the answer to _that_ question already. Maybe he did. Maybe he was just being obnoxious.

Jolly rolled his eyes. "Do I really answer to that? _You_ were the one found with the wounds caused by severe torture."

Gabriel shivered a little. He might not remember those events, but his nerve endings still did, sending phantom pain through his entire body.

"Oh, I remember _that_ all too well, believe me. At least the time after I was found. And I'll happily keep the getting tortured part forgotten. But it seems to me that a lot of people know things about my life _before_ that – and to get back those twenty or so years, I'd even be willing to remember the rest."

"Have you looked up your Starfleet file?" Jolly tried to change topics, because Gabriel was getting dangerously close to the truth.

"Of course!" Gabriel snorted. "And _nothing_ that stands there sounds even vaguely familiar. As if I'd be reading the bio of a completely different person, a stranger."

"Well, you _are_ a different person now," Jolly pointed out helpfully.

"Not as different as this 'Lieutenant Demos' feels to me," Gabriel replied glumly. "And his file contains nothing that would explain anything of my childhood memories."

"You're chasing shadows," Jolly said quietly.

"Perhaps," Gabriel nodded, "but they won't leave me alone. And I'm going to go crazy if I can't find an explanation for all this."

"May I ask how you intend to find that explanation?" Jolly tried to sound light, but he was getting really worried.

"Oh, that's easy," Gabriel said with a shrug. "I happen to know this level three Andorian comm specialist who'd sell his antennae for a working system in fizzbin. I'm sure he'll be grateful for some good hints at the gambling table."

"I wouldn't do this if I were you," Jolly warned him. "You're asking for trouble, man – and you might get more than you bargained for."

"Perhaps," Gabriel said grimly. "But I _have_ to know, Jolly, don't you understand it? Right now, I'm not even _feeling_ myself, even less than I felt when I was still Lieutenant Doe. I _must_ find an answer, even if it kills me!"

_And that's exactly what we're all afraid of_, Jolly thought with a heavy sight when his friend stormed off. Then he contacted sickbay and asked for Dr. M'Benga.

"Doc, I'm afraid we have a problem," he announced.

* * *

Lieutenant Kalliope was busily packing her duffel bags. The only thing she enjoyed even more than being ICOB was getting furlough and going planetside – mostly because it was such a rare occasion, even after finding Earth.

In this particular case, however, her excitement was even stronger than usual. For the first time for yahrens, she and Lieutenant Tristin – one of the ace pilots of Red Squadron – had managed to synchronize their schedules and as a result, they were now going to have two full sectons down on New Caprica. _Together_.

Their relationship had lasted a few yahrens by now, and lately they had seriously begun to think about getting Sealed. They just hadn't found the right moment to get it done. Not until now.

Now they were both going home to Caprica – Tristin was one of the few fortunate ones who still had living family left, so that he could take her to his parents and get their blessing and a proper ceremony. Barely any other people could state the same about themselves.

And _Sire_ Adama had agreed to perform their Sealing ceremony personally, which was another rare occasion. But the retired commander of the _Galactica_ never refused a request from the crew if it was within his power to help. And Athena would be there, too, who'd kept their old friendship, forged during the endless centares of shared bridge duty, despite the fact that she was a very important diplomat now, used to talk with alien dignitaries.

Kalliope regretted that the Colonel wouldn't be able to attend her Sealing, but with Commander Apollo still cruising the former Cylon basestars – now orbital defence stations – at least _one_ of the senior officers had to remain aboard. But he _had_ come to see them off, and to present them with his Sealing gift: a brand new set of a captain's rank pins.

"Since the _Galactica_ is still the flagship of the entire Fleet, it was decided that the leader of First Watch should be granted the rank of a captain, as well as the duties and privileges of a flag adjutant, as it has been granted me right before finding our way here," he explained. "You'll have to attend a few Command School lessons once the Academy is fully reinstated, but the payment will start next secton – I assume you can use it, especially now, when you're founding a new family."

For a micron, Kalliope couldn't even speak from sheer surprise. Her promotion to flag lieutenant had already been unusual enough, even with them living in unusual times, but becoming a flag _captain_… That meant she now outranked all other officers on the same level in Fleet hierarchy.

Unfortunately, that still _didn't_ mean that she could now give Captain Kir'oss felgercarb when the other woman was being a _boray_. That harpy would take it out on Tristin. Still, it was an unbelievably good feeling.

"Thank you, Colonel," she stammered, still barely trusting her ears. Omega gave her one of his rare smiles.

"You're welcome, Captain. It was long overdue anyway. But I was wondering if you could do me a personal favour?"

"As long as you don't demand my firstborn, sir, I'm game," she replied, a large, happy grin finally spreading all over her face. Omega laughed.

"It's not quite that serious, Captain," he replied. "The truth is, my daughter had made a gift for _Siress_ Athena – some sort of artwork at that Federation school she was applying for – but Athena had left the Starbase before it was finished. So, I thought you could perhaps take it with you and give it to her. It's really neither big nor heavy, so…"

He trailed off, a little unsure, but Kalliope nodded empathically. "Of course, Colonel, I'd be happy to do so – do you have it on you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Omega produced a small, gift-wrapped parcel, smaller even than a box of fumarellos. It was decoratively bound with a blue ribbon.

_A blue ribbon_. Kalliope needed all her willpower to keep the cheerful grin firmly plastered on her face. Now she knew why had Omega waited till the last micron, just before they would board the shuttle to New Caprica. Why he'd taken the time to walk with them to the shuttle hangar and give her the box publicly, like the most innocent item possible.

Which it most certainly was _not_. Nor was it truly a gift at all. Data crystals, most likely, Kalliope thought, or Federation-issue computer chips. They _had_ found something under the mantle of that Code Blue investigation… something that the Colonel wouldn't even trust the secured channels with. So he was sending the evidence in a gift box, before everyone's eyes.

You couldn't hide a tree anywhere else as well as in a forest, after all. Or so the Librans liked to say.

And since Blue Alert had apparently still not been lifted, Kalliope wasn't allowed to tell anyone but _Siress_ Athena about the whole thing. Not even _Sire_ Adama. Not even her soon-to-be husband.

Being a flag officer meant that you learned quite a lot of sensitive information – and learned to bury it. She was used to do that. She could do _this_, too. It was all part of the job. A job she had always been so good at that she'd just got promoted for it. She would not disappoint her superior.

"Handle it with care, Captain," Omega added lightly. "I'm told it's a bit sensitive."

He didn't seem worried, though, not a bit, and Kalliope's admiration for his legendary self-discipline just went up another notch or two.

"Of course, sir," she replied, hoping that her smile was half as convincing as his (although the brand new rank insignia on her collar _did_ help a lot with that). "I'll deliver it safely, straight into _Siress_ Athena's hands."

She kept her tone light, too, or so she hoped, and Omega smiled at her again.

"Thank you, Captain," he said. "I knew I could count on you."

* * *

Adama had come to the realization that retirement agreed with him. He'd been a military officer all his life, like all his forefathers before him. Back to the beginning of the Thousand Yahren War, but in the heart of his hearts he'd always been something else. Something more: the wise and understanding patriarch who guided the younger generation with a firm hand but also with great compassion.

He was also the dedicated local patriot who'd cared for his immediate home a great deal. Now that he had the time for it, he'd offered his wisdom and experience the local government willingly. He was still a very active person, and there was so much to do. So much to heal. So much to rebuild.

And his guidance was sorely needed. Capricans, while a capable and strong people, had always depended on the lead of the old patrician Houses – even if those Houses hadn't always been worthy their trust. It had been ingrained into them for so many millennia that shaping a different attitude would be a difficult task to perform, even with the help of the samesome patrician Houses. Even if it _had_ to be done one day. Perhaps not right away, they had too many other worries at the moment, but soon.

Unfortunately, the Destruction hadn't spared the Old Houses. Only three of them survived, and Adama thanked the Lords of Kobol every night before turning in that the other two were represented by such honourable and intelligent sons as _Sire_ Telamon, the Caprican representative of the _Quorum_, and Omega. At least on those two he could count, even if the other members of the Planetary Council had to be chosen from people of common birth. At least the Houses of Anacreon, Lares and Philemon were still present. People needed a strong sense of continuity in order to feel safe.

Although _Sire_ Lares, one of the richest and most powerful patriarchs of Caprica would probably die of embarrassment, had he known that his only surviving grandson was living in a modest estate, with five adopted children of partially low, partially unknown bloodlines, and two of them damaged to that, Adama thought with a wry little smile. Although he'd probably appreciate the fact that Omega had provided shelter to his only surviving blood-relative. Even if said relative was of mixed origins and of questionable Taurean beliefs. Heads of old Houses could be like that.

Adama sighed and shook his head. Perhaps it _was_ a good thing that so very few of the old aristocracy had survived, after all. The Lords of Kobol had given them the chance to begin a whole new segment of their people's long history – perhaps it was time to go new ways. The old ones had been too soiled with political intrigues, plotting and treachery. Perhaps a new beginning was more urgently needed than he'd have thought before.

He'd been shaken to the bone by Athena's news. He'd always loved Starbuck like a son, ever since Apollo had brought the young, shy, wild fan-like creature home to Naiacap to spend the holidays with them for the first time. And every time afterwards, until he'd become part of their family in all but blood.

It had taken Starbuck quite some time to drop his shields and become comfortable with them – Adama had always suspected that the young man's gloriously good looks had earned him a great deal of harassment – but once he'd warmed up to them, he and Apollo had been inseparable. Adama still wasn't sure that his firstborn hadn't developed the same crush on his classmate as his younger siblings, although Apollo had never shown interest for his own gender before _or_ afterwards. Starbuck had always had a very strong effect on people – they either loved him unconditionally or hated him. And most of the time it hadn't had a thing with the sexual magnetism he undeniably emanated all the time. Starbuck was – well, _Starbuck_.

It had surprised Adama, though, that someone would hate the young man enough to subject him to the cruelty that resulted in the haunted creature that was currently living on Starbase 7 under a false name. Had it been jealousy, with the intent to destroy his golden beauty? Adama didn't think so, and apparently neither did Athena or Omega, although it was a known fact that there _were_ people who reacted to beauty with destructive wrath. Still, there must have been an even more sinister goal behind all this, with Starbuck in the role of the unfortunate but very convenient sacrificial lambet.

Athena had been hesitating to tell Apollo the truth just yet, and for the time being Adama agreed with his daughter. Apollo wasn't only a very straightforward person with the heroic – but ultimately suicidal – tendency to run headfirst into the wall, he'd also been badly shaken by the loss of Starbuck, and there was no knowing how he would react to the man his friend had become. Having been shown the records, Adama had been hard-pushed to control his own reactions, to tell the truth.

And yet he _had_ to keep his anger under control. They needed to find out the true extent of this ugly conspiracy… and the persons behind it. That didn't mean he had to _like_ the forced inactivity. But he was old and shrewd enough to be patient. He could wait.

* * *

He _knew_ it was a stupid idea. He knew it could bring him into Diabolus' kitchen(1). If he got caught, they wouldn't let him go with a warning pat on his astrum… God, he was now absorbing Jolly's strange expressions without even realizing it! When had he become such good buddies with the Colonial pilot anyway?

Or had someone instructed the man to keep an eye on him?

He shook his head, berating himself for his own paranoia. Somehow, he couldn't imagine the man who was like a big, friendly dog being a spy. The strange thing was, though, that while he didn't have the slightest feeling of familiarity when studying Lieutenant Demos' file – albeit he was supposed to read his own biography – he _did_ have the impression that he'd known Jolly for ages.

There was something going on behind the scenes – something that definitely concerned him, but people wouldn't tell him the truth about it. He was certain that the commodore was involved somehow. There was no chance anything happening aboard the station that Hunter wouldn't know of. She ran a tight base.

And Jolly's colonel… Everything had begun with the tall, dark, elegant man's appearance in the _Carillon Bar_. All the weird things had started happening after that.

Perhaps Jolly _was_ involved after all. But somehow Gabriel couldn't imagine that the pilot would harm him in any way. That left another possibility, which sounded just as ridiculous: there was as light possibility that Jolly kept hanging out with him to _protect_ him.

But why would anyone care enough to go such lengths? What did these people know about him, and why wouldn't they tell him the truth?

In the end, it all came down to _one_ important question: the secret of his true identity. Because no matter what that exquisite blonde of a Special Emissary had said, Gabriel knew, with a certainty that defied all logic, that he was _not_ Lieutenant Demos, the ill-fated pilot of the USS _Magellan_.

But who _was_ he then? Aside from the child who had roamed the thorn forest on that nameless planet? He was Gabriel, that much he knew, but _who_ was Gabriel? And who was _Isme_, for that matter, the gentle, dark-haired woman from the little agrostation, and that man with the mobile face that had occasionally visited them? What had happened to them – what had happened to _him_? How had he ended up on Starbase 7, in a desolate state and with no memory?

The answer to those questions – well, at least part of the answer – had to be hidden somewhere in the medical database of the Starfleet medical facility. That was where the doctor from the _Galactica_ had spent his entire visit. He _had_ to find that answer. Not knowing wasn't an option anymore. Even if he wouldn't like what he found.

Using the code he'd found with the help of the clueless Andorian communications expert – it still amazed him that people would fall for his _really_ simple tricks – he opened the hatch of the maintenance tunnel and slipped into the genetic research lab. It was dark and abandoned now, but he knew this was the one where Dr. Salik and that Vulcan geneticist had been working on that day – on the same one when he'd been waiting for the colonel in the _Carillon Bar_ in vain.

There was a connection, he could feel it. And he was going to find out _what_ it was, regardless of the costs.

So, this was the place, then. For a moment, he stayed motionless, trying to get a feeling for the room. It didn't feel like a very big one, but he didn't feel crowded in it, either. Good; that meant he wouldn't hit some alarm switch by accident. The next move would be to get some light – not much, only enough to find the computers and get them online. Somehow. The copy he'd managed to make of the Andorian's access card should help. And the glow of the viewscreens themselves would be enough to start the actual search.

"Computer," he said in a low voice, "lights at fifteen percent."

A pale glow illuminated the lab. He looked around to get his bearings. There were working surfaces with built-in computer terminals and tall lab stools all along the walls. One of the stools, right opposite him, spun around now, and his glance fell on the tall, dark-skinned man who was sitting on it, very obviously waiting for him.

"Lieutenant Demos," Dr. M'Benga said with the impeccable calmness of a man who'd worked with Vulcans for years. "Can I be of any assistance?"

For a moment, Gabriel seriously considered to flee through the same maintenance tunnel he'd arrived. But he didn't. A good gambler always realized when the game was lost – and he had to deal with the consequences.

**

* * *

End notes:**

(1) This is a word-to-word translation of the German expression "jemanden in Teufels Küche bringen", which means getting something in deep trouble.


	10. Chapter 10 Widening Rings

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

While researching Croft's background, I found a lot of data that wouldn't always match. So I made a mix of them in the way it served the purpose of my story best – and even twisted the one or other fact a little, to make things more interesting. Him being a Scorpian is stated in the novelization of "The Gun On Ice Planet Zero", by the way.

The Ardanans and their peculiar society are portrayed in the original Star Trek episode "The Cloud Minders".

The Aurelians of the Animated Series are sentient bipeds with great wings and a bird-like head. I chose to modify them a bit, so the closest thing would be the "Hawk" character from "Buck Rogers in the 25th Century" – just with wings. The piercing voice that could reach the fighter flying in the atmosphere was established in that series.

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Widening Rings in Silent Waters**

Despite a few minor setbacks along the way, the building of Heliopolis, the capital city of New Sagittara, had made considerable headway in the recent yahrens. Thanks to the meticulous planning of the Chief Warlord's architects and the skills and experience of Ardanan workers – or Troglytes, as they were called by their own ruling class – a beautiful city had been raised, with a central stronghold for the armed forces in its exact middle. The basic layout followed the pyramidal architecture of the old colonies, but as it had been built from the scratch, the planning could be more logical and the work better organized.

The Citadel, as the stronghold was traditionally called, included industrial facilities for the production of fighters and landrams, training grounds for the military (complete with Triad courts and a great stadium for athletes), living quarters for the personnel and barracks for the garrison. Outside the Citadel, straight roads radiated into twelve directions, framing wide, open squares with pyramidal living blocks for the civilian population. In the centre of the squares tall obelisks had been erected, all four sides of them covered with names, written in Old Kobolian and _very_ small letters – the names of those who had never made it out of the old colony or died during the flight. Sagittara guarded the memory of its lost sons and daughters. Loyalty was one of the pillars Sagittarian society was built on.

It had been hard work to build all that in such relatively short time, but apparently, the Troglytes were used to work under harsh conditions. For centuries, Ardanan society had been divided into two classes, and while the upper class devoted all its energy to art and science, the Troglytes had been doomed to do all the hard and dirty work.

The ruling class of Ardana had made its home in the clouds – literally. Their immense, airborne metropolis, known as Stratos City, was the finest example of selected gravity manipulation known even to the advanced Federation science. As no one could completely understand the manner in which it accomplished its levitation, it was generally believed that the ancestors of the Ardanans had brought the amazing technology from their original homeworld, the existence and whereabouts of which had been long forgotten. However, the heirs of that technology still knew how to operate it successfully, and thus an alliance with Ardana was much sought after by all the more important New Colonies.

Even if they had to accept the unpleasant truth that only a small minority came to enjoy the advantages of Ardanan technology. The Troglytes had to work in the _zienite_ mines, beneath the planet's surface, mining the precious ore by hand; because of its softness, it couldn't be done any other way. And they had to wear special filter masks during work, as _zienite_, in its raw form, emitted a colourless, odourless gas that attacked humanoid brain tissue, causing a state of extreme irritability, followed by confusion, insanity, and – ultimately – death.

Compared with _that_, working on the expanding city of Heliopolis was definitely the better choice, Commander Xaviar thought, watching the long rows of Troglyte workers, whose assignment had come to an end, boarding the large transport shuttles that would take them to the huger crew transporters in orbit, each capable of holding five hundred people. The newly arrived groups, who'd be taking their place, were leaving the shuttle through the other door at the same time.

"They look like a miserable bunch of losers," commented a rough voice, and glancing back over his shoulder, Xaviar looked right into the deeply scarred face of his most trusted aide; but again, who else than Croft could have managed to sneak up to him undetected?

"It's hard to believe that they're capable of such impressive work," the straw-haired man added with an ironic grimace.

"Most people _are_ capable of great achievements… with proper guidance," the Chief Warlord replied. "You of all people should know that – you've always been very good at motivating people."

"Yeah, sure," Croft riposted with a derisive snort. "I was the great leader of an elite strike force – a team, containing my wife who hated me, a lunatic who killed _her_ and a spineless snake who betrayed us all."

"And yet you have taken out the Cylon outpost on Arcta, destroying the pulsar cannon of Dr. Ravishol and saving the entire Fleet in the process," Xaviar reminded him. "You've always been an exceptional military officer – which is why I selected you as chief instructor for new recruits, despite the fact that you're not even Sagittarian. That's not something I'd do every other day."

Croft knew that, of course. The Sagittarian military elite was the most paranoid ruling class in all twelve colonies. Selecting a Scorpian for such an important military position was virtually unheard of. But again, he was not any ordinary Scorpian. He was the former commander of the snow garrison of Kalpa – a legend of his own, even if with shadowy undertones.

"Do we have any?" he asked. "New recruits, I mean."

"Of course we do," Xaviar shrugged; drafting young men and women into the military was another pillar of Sagittarian society. "On our world, that will never be a problem."

"It helps when you don't have to ask for volunteers, doesn't it?" Croft said with a humourless grin. Xaviar shrugged again.

"It is as it is," he replied dismissively. "It has been our way since the beginning of the Thousand Yahren War – and it had worked out just fine, so far. We don't have to worry about the quantity. But I'm not satisfied with the quality at all. Discipline has suffered greatly during the flight, due to the lack of proper military structures. Rebuilding at least the centre of Heliopolis has delayed things, too. But now it's time that we re-establish order."

"You've chosen the wrong man to help you, then," Croft said. "I'm not very good at order and structure myself. Have always been the leader of my own pack and gotten too used to act as I see right."

"It doesn't matter," Xaviar said. "See that the recruits get a thorough training. _I'll see_ that order is re-established."

"I can live with that arrangement," Croft said.

For a few centons, they were still, watching the change of working groups in companionable silence. It was Croft who picked up the conversation after a while again.

"How did it go in Ultima Thule?" he asked. "Have those old _vulpines_ bought your show?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Xaviar admitted. "I hope I played the part they'd expected me to play convincingly enough, but with those two, you can never be sure."

"With allies like that, who needs the Cylons?" Croft quoted the old saying morosely. "Perhaps you should reconsider your alliances before it's too late."

"I'm planning to," Xaviar replied, his eyes – practically the only undamaged feature in his once handsome face – icy cold. "But I can't switch alliances right now. Not before our planetary defence systems are built and fully installed. I still need that vile old man to negotiate for me."

"I don't like it," Croft scowled. "I don't trust him… I don't trust any of them, for that matter. They'd sell us in a micron if it served their advantage."

"Of course they would," Xaviar agreed. "But that fracking hypocrite of a politician, High Advisor Plasus of Stratos, would only negotiate with the 'civilian government'. So I'll let those old fools believe that they can use me and then discard me when I'm no longer needed… and let them work for me."

"It's a dangerous game you're playing," Croft warned. "What's worse, it's _their_ game. They won't hesitate to have you terminated, should they realize what you are doing."

"I know," Xaviar nodded. "But in one thing you're wrong: it's _not_ their game. It is war, like any other war, just fought with different weapons. And in war, I am the better one."

"Perhaps," Croft allowed. "But they won't fight fairly, and I'm not getting any younger. One day, I won't be able to protect you from a much younger assassin."

"I'm not keeping you close to _protect_ me," Xaviar replied calmly. "You're here because I need someone who knows what I've planned for New Sagittara. Someone with a devious enough mind to guide my successor on that pre-determined path, should anything happen to me untimely. Someone independent and insubordinate enough to do so, even if many people in important positions wouldn't like it."

"Hmmm…" Croft mused in dark amusement. "I'm not sure whether I've been just insulted – or given a compliment."

"You've been told the simple truth," Xaviar answered.

* * *

"Well, Lieutenant?" M'Benga said as if it had been the most natural think in the world to find intruders in classified labs in the middle of the night. "Anything I may be able to do for you?"

The man didn't seem particularly mad, so Gabriel decided to take a risk.

"I'm sure there is," he replied. "I'm just not sure you're wiling to do; nobody is."

"Actually," the doctor said calmly, "we all are. We're all trying to make you lie low for a while – in your best interest. Unfortunately, you've been less than cooperative lately."

"If you guys would finally tell me the truth, I might be persuaded to cooperate," Gabriel said.

M'Benga shook his head thoughtfully. "No, I don't believe so. But that's a moot point, anyway. We can't 'tell you the truth', because, quite frankly, we don't know it, either."

"But you do know who I am – who I _really_ am, don't you?" Gabriel asked suspiciously.

The doctor shrugged. "I was given a name and a short description of your career, yes. But that doesn't mean that I know who you _are_."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "That's splitting hair, doc, and you know that."

"Actually… it's not," M'Benga said very seriously. "Think about it, Lieutenant. I don't know you – I never have. For the ones who do, you are a very different man than the one you used to be. So, which one is the real you? The child named Gabriel? The one you were afterwards, in a life you can't remember? Lieutenant Doe? Or Lieutenant Demos?"

"Well, most certainly _not_ Lieutenant Demos," Gabriel pulled a face. "That's the one persona I definitely have nothing to do with."

"What makes you so sure?" the doctor asked. "For all means and purposes, there is enough proof that you, in fact, _are_ Lieutenant Demos."

"There's no proof here… or here," Gabriel briefly touched his forehead and his heart. "_That_ makes me so sure."

"And that's one step closer to unlocking your memory," M'Benga said. "However, it has been decided that for the time being you _will_ be Lieutenant Demos."

"Decided why? And by whom?"

"By the people who used to know you, have grieved your loss and are afraid to lose you again," M'Benga sighed. "Should your true identity become common knowledge, the people who are responsible for your current state might get a track on you again – and come back to finish the job. Have you thought about that possibility?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Yeah, what do you think? I'm the one with the crazy nightmares here."

"I understand that not knowing who you are can be frustrating," the doctor said. "But giving you a name and a few bare facts wouldn't help. Not as long as you don't begin to remember. The two basic questions that need to be answered for you to be safe again are: What happened to you? And: Why did it happen? Your… old friends are working on the _why_, and I'm certain that sooner or later, they'll find the answer. But only you can answer the _what_."

"I can't!" Gabriel snapped in frustration. "Hello? Man without memory here, remember?"

"Man with a buried memory," M'Benga corrected. "But what's buried can be unearthed again. There are methods. It's up to you."

Gabriel stared at his boots morosely. He knew he should accept the help Federation therapists could offer. Still…

"I don't like people poking around in my head," he repeated what he'd said to Jolly earlier.

"That's understandable," the doctor nodded. "The question is, though: do you hate not knowing more than you're afraid of what you might find out?"

"I'm not afraid," Gabriel riposted angrily, but the doctor just looked at him with those deep, dark, compassionate eyes.

"Are you sure?" was all he asked.

No, he wasn't sure. In fact, he _was_ scared shitless of what he might find, but admitting that would have been too uncomfortable. Still, what little the doctor _had_ told him helped to figure out at least a few things.

"I'm a Colonial warrior, aren't I?" he asked quietly.

"So I am told," M'Benga answered. "As I said, I never really knew you as anyone else but as Lieutenant Doe – and even like that, only fleetingly."

"But someone did," Gabriel realized. "Someone from my past recognized me, right? And that has brought things into motion again.

"That is correct," the doctor agreed.

"Someone, not long ago," Gabriel was now thinking really fast, not wanting to lose the only lead he'd found for days. "Someone with enough influence to ask questions and even get answers… The colonel! It was Colonel Omega, wasn't it?"

"Correct again," M'Benga said. "And that's all you are ever going to learn from me, Lieutenant. This is not my tale to tell. Besides, the most important part of the tale, the one that could bring some light into this chaos, is still buried in your mind."

"And Jolly?" Gabriel asked. "He does know me, doesn't he? From… from _before_, right? That's why he feels so – so familiar."

"I assume that is true," M'Benga replied. "But don't bother to ask him – he won't answer you. He has his orders… and should you manage to get him disobey those orders, you'd get him in great trouble."

"But why do they all want to keep me in the dark?" Gabriel paced up and down in the lab from sheer frustration. "Why can't they just tell me who I am?"

"I'm not privy to the details," the doctor shrugged, "so all I can do is to repeat what they've told me: it would be dangerous for you, as long as you don't remember. Of course," he added with a thin, ironic smile," they never told me in how much trouble you can get yourself by simply being too curious."

"Too curious," Gabriel snorted. "Weren't _you_ curious in my place?"

"Of course I would," the doctor said. "And I believe that you know as well as I do what the only way is to satisfy your curiosity."

* * *

Jolly stared at the Starfleet doctor in stunned amazement.

"He _agreed_?" he repeated, for about the fourth time.

Dr. M'Benga shrugged and stored several dozen selected computer chips in a small box tat was designed to shield them against radiation, magnetic fields and other possibly harmful environmental factors.

"Sergeant, the facts won't change, no matter how many times you repeat the same question," he said patiently.

"But… but he _always_ refused to go to psychotechs," Jolly said, still completely flabbergasted. "I thought I'd have to work on persuading him for at least another sectare or two. Or three."

"He never had the same urgent motivation before, I believe," M'Benga sealed the storage box.

"He had suffered from memory loss before," Jolly pointed out.

"But he had no real hope for healing, had he?" M'Benga replied. "I'm sorry that I won't be seeing the outcome of all this," he added. "I have to report for duty on the _Enterprise_; I'm leaving within the hour."

"Aren't you too late for that already?" Jolly asked. "Lieutenant Palamas has left days ago, and _she_ was worried to be late."

"True, but she had to catch a personal transporter," M'Benga said. "I'm leaving with the Vulcan courier ship _V'Kash_ that takes some renowned Vulcan scientist to Starfleet Sciences."

"A favour from an old acquaintance?" Jolly grinned.

"A logical solution," the doctor answered. "Well, I have to go now. Vulcans have a thing for punctuality. I hope things will turn out all right for your friend, though."

"So do I, doc," Jolly sighed, not really trusting Starbuck's capricious luck to behave this time. "So do I."

* * *

New Scorpia Station was Apollo's last stop on his annual surveillance tour before finally returning home – and he was honestly relieved about that fact. Boarding a Cylon basestar, even one that had been taken apart and put back together by human engineers in order to avoid nasty surprises, was always an eerie feeling. Sabotaging a vessel like this one had been his last major task with Starbuck – the mere sight of a basestar made the loss of his best friend more real, more painful. Even after three yahrens, the wound was still raw.

Of course, aside from the familiar structure, the basestar looked very differently now. It was brimming with life – _organic_ life! – as humans from the Colonies as well as from Earth and other world, Vulcan scientists, Andorian mechanics, Tellarite engineers, Deltan bionic experts, Caitian comm techs filled its numerous decks, happily studying, repairing and rebuilding parts of the board systems, making them compatible with standard Federation and Colonial technology. Apollo even spotted an avian from Aurelia II working high up on one of the upper felix-walks; a humanoid-looking male, with a full head of short, plush, black-tipped white feathers and great wings folded on his back like a stiff silk cape.

The bird-man must have had avian eyesight, too, because he spotted Apollo below. Unfolding his wings that must have had a span of three metrons, he sailed down from the dizzying height where he'd been working and landed softly on his feet, barely at arm's length from Apollo. He had a hawkish face – understandable, all things considered – and his eyelashes seemed to be tiny feathers as well. Even his hands looked completely human… save from the retractable claws on the end of his fingers.

"Commander Apollo!" he greeted the visitor in a deceivingly soft voice. Apollo had heard that the avians of Aurelia II could shatter glass with their high-pitched, piercing shriek which could be heard in the upper levels of the atmosphere if released full force. Whatever else they might be, songbirds they were definitely _not_. "Welcome to New Scorpia Station. Dr. Wilker asked me to take you to the upper weapons deck as soon as you arrive."

"I hope you mean traditional methods," Apollo smiled, fascinated by this exotic creature the likes of whom he'd only seen on holovids before.

The avian tilted his head to the side with a decidedly bird-like jerk and grinned.

"I _could_ carry you in a case of extreme need," he judged, "but let's not experiment with that right now. Dr. Wilker would pull my feathers, one by one, should I drop you."

They both laughed and rode the turbolift – installed by Federation engineers to make traffic on the huge base faster and more comfortable – to the upper section.

"Oh, and by the way," the avian added, "my name is Aleek-thorm. I'm a Whitiki from Merabii, as you can see. Or Aurelia II, as Federation star charts list our homeworld."

The turbolift stopped and released them into an enormous, circular room that once had been the basestar's upper weapons deck. Although all weapons systems were generally controlled from the command deck in the middle of the basestar, the weapons themselves were situated on the enormous upper and lower weapons decks. Which both had the diameter of the entire base, to provide manual access in the case of a computer malfunction. Magnetic slide stripes criss-crossed the wide floor, working on the same principle as old-fashioned escalators, only in the horizontal – installed to move the slow and clumsy Cylon droids to different parts of the deck with alarming speed.

For the more fragile human body, it would have been a risky way to travel. Which must have been the reason why Dr. Wilker had employed avian engineers and mechanics to work with him here. They could simply fly across the deck in microns if necessary… and were obviously having the time of their lives doing so.

"It's rare that they can work the way they are used to on joint projects," Dr. Wilker explained, as Aleek-thorm set off and joined his peers some fifteen metrons above the humans' heads. "Welcome, Apollo! It's good to see you again."

"Different circumstances would be preferable," Apollo admitted, looking around a bit uncomfortably. Dr. Wilker nodded in understanding.

"I know this isn't the nicest of all places, and I apologize," he said. "But this is the only one where I can be sure that nobody would spy on us. The Whitiki's hearing is as keen as their eyesight – they'd discover any listening devices by the frequency they emit."

"Why would anyone listen to us?" Apollo wondered. Wilker gave him a searching look, as if he wasn't sure the question had been meant seriously.

"Apollo," he said with the forced patience of a man who's speaking to a nice but slow child, "you didn't really believe that Uri and his cronies would settle down peacefully and mind their own business for the good of their people? Especially not after your father had retired, the control of the military lifted, and they got re-elected?"

"No, of course not," Apollo replied a little indignantly. "But I don't think Uri would have enough influence to cause any real trouble. Particularly now, when everyone is busy with rebuilding our homes."

"You're right, he has not," Wilker said grimly. "But he's just a convenient pawn, not one of the really big players." He hesitated for a moment, as if not sure whether he should speak or not, but in the end, he decided on speaking. "Apollo, I've been… _approached_. Very carefully, so that I couldn't prove a thing, but it shows that they're still keeping tab on me."

"Approached by whom?" Apollo asked. "With what purpose? And who are _they_?"

"By mediators, who probably didn't even know whom they work for," Wilker said. "As for _them_ – ask your father about the great patrician Houses of Scorpia. About Antiochus and Berenice. He'll know. As for the purpose… have you ever heard of the _House of Viridianus_?"

Apollo laughed. "You mean the semi-divine rules of Ancient Scorpia? Who hasn't? It's one of the most popular myths."

"It's more than a myth," Wilker said in a low voice. "I'm the last member of that House, even though descended through the female line, which is considered inferior by Scorpian hereditary law."

"You're _what_?" Apollo had difficulties to close his mouth. "I always knew you were the prodigal son of a noble family, but I never imagined _this_ level of nobility."

"It doesn't matter, not really," Wilker shrugged. "My forefathers had the common sense of leaving the whole outdated thing behind them and learning how to do some honest work. No one of the powerful families has contacted us for several generations; we've been considered an anomaly among the Great Houses. Traitors, almost. I find it rather… unsettling that they'd try re-establishing contact right now."

"So do I," Apollo admitted. "What did you answer them?"

"I played dumb," Wilker shrugged. "Pretended I didn't understand what they wanted. With a bit of luck, they might even believe that our family has thrown tradition overboard for good. We've come close enough, after all."

"But you can't be sure you've fooled them, can you?" Apollo asked. Wilker shook his head.

"They knew my name – my _true_ name, Apollo!" Seeing the other man's blank face, he snapped. "Don't look at me like that! Surely you're aware of the fact that your family is the only Great House whose members use their true names in public… due to the rebellious decision of your grandfather, Anacreon. My House is dead, my parents had died sixteen yahrens before the Destruction, I never had any siblings, and we didn't keep records about such things like the true name of the firstborn son. _No one_ is supposed to know that the firstborn had been named Viridian for the last twenty or so generations – or that it means me."

"Why are you telling me all this now, then?" Apollo asked.

"Your father ought to know, in case something happens to me," Wilker answered grimly. "He's well-versed in tradition, better than anyone else – he has the best chance to figure out what's really going on. But I can't contact him directly – that would raise suspicions."

"Are you in any danger here?" Apollo asked in concern.

"I don't think so," Wilker said. "Not at the moment anyway. And my work here is almost done, so that I can move on to New Gemini Station shortly. That would get me within reach of New Sagittara and under the protection of the Chief Warlord."

"And _that_ would be safe?" Apollo asked doubtfully. He could never really trust Commander Xaviar, regardless of the man's heroic deeds.

"Safe for _me_ anyway," Wilker laughed humourlessly. "They need me to install and check out their new defence system; the one they're getting from Ardana. Definitely safer than here."

"If you say so…" Apollo was still not entirely persuaded. But Wilker gave his arm an encouraging squeeze.

"Commander… don't worry about me. I'm shrewd, and I can take care of myself. Just don't forget to tell your father everything I told you. Other than that, have a break and enjoy the festivities. I wish I could participate – but this here is more urgent if I want to get away in time."

"What festivities?" Apollo frowned, very obviously not having the slightest idea.

Wilker rolled his eyes. "Lords, Apollo, do you ever listen to the newest gossip?"

"Not really," Apollo admitted.

"You should," Wilker said. "One learns more through gossip than from all official communiqués counted together."

"Well, since I obviously don't, do you care to enlighten me?" Apollo said sarcastically.

"Sure," Wilker grinned. "Well, the official part is that President Darius is giving a grand reception for some high-ranking Ardanan representatives. Everyone who counts in the New Colonies is invited – including, of course, your father, your sister and yourself. The invitation will be waiting for you when you get home. The unofficial part is, that the President is planning to Seal with some Ardanan noblewoman and wants your father there to perform the Sealing ceremony."

"He does _what_?" But Apollo was really too shocked to even hear the answer.

* * *

Athena shook her head in disbelief.

"Father, I can't believe that you're giving your blessing to this… this _farce_. Isn't a proper Sealing ceremony supposed to be something sacred? The very incarnation of deep love between two people who want to spend the rest of their lives together?"

"Well, I don't question President Darius' intention to spend the rest of his life with _Siress_ Droxine of Ardana," her father replied with calm patience. "And the Book of the Word only demands that they enter the ceremony on their own free will. As for the love… that might come yet. I've seen holopictures from the _siress_ – she's exquisite, and she's said to be an artist, an excellent musician. Darius is a poet. They might prove a good match – and securing Ardana's support for the New Colonies is crucial. Besides, it's not a done deal yet. Darius insisted on meeting the _siress_ first and on talking to her about the whole thing. He's _not_ a fool, whatever the older Councillors might think of him."

"Still… giving away the choice of his life for political advantages… it's just not right," Athena said with distaste.

"It's not _ideal_," her father corrected, "but it's known to have been done time and again in history. Darius has a very strong sense of responsibility. _If_ he thinks such a Sealing of convenience is both useful and necessary, we shouldn't question his choice. There will be enough others who're going to – he'll need our support."

"Well, I'm just a minor diplomat, and I won't interfere with his marital bliss – or the lack of it," Athena said. "But honestly, Father, I've head things about Ardana that makes a closer alliance with that world somewhat… less than appealing. I'm surprised that the Federation still tolerates them as a member world."

"Sometimes the needs outrank the principles," Adama said slowly. "The Federation needs the _zienite_ for its unique antibacterial properties, and Ardana _is_ the only known large _zienite_ deposit. We need Ardanan technology and the Troglyte workers because we don't have the resources _or_ the manpower to rebuild our colonies alone. It might be morally questionable – to be honest, I don't feel that good about it myself – but 'beggars can't be choosers', as our cousins from Earth say."

"But by allying us with Ardana, we're practically helping them to keep up the status quo," Athena said, clearly troubled. Adama sighed.

"You are right – that's exactly what we're doing. And I'm _not_ happy about it, believe me. But this is one of those cases when I had to choose between a peaceful conscience and the welfare of our people. And I don't think it would make me feel better about myself if our people would have to live on wrecked ships or Cylon basestars for yahrens yet, just because I've rejected Ardana's help on principle."

"It's still not right," Athena stated stubbornly.

"No," Adama agreed, "it is not. But sometimes we can't afford to do the right thing, no matter how much we'd like to. The costs for the people we've accepted responsibility for would be too high. Sometimes we just have to choose the lesser evil. You don't have to like it. It's enough if you act accordingly."

"Speaking of which," Athena said, "how are we going to act about Starbuck? You know that we'll have to make our move, soon. Considering what Salik had found, we can't wait for the other side to move first."

"I know," Adama sighed, "but that will have to wait till our return from Aquarius. We can't do anything before that, as much as I'd like to."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11 Conveniences

**LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes: **For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

President Darius' name and office hails from A. Stacey's "Galactica"-stories – at that time, I've mistaken him for a canon character. But since my interpretation is a rather different one, I decided to keep him. For visuals, he's "played" by Damien Sargue, the French actor who starred in the "Roméo et Juliette" musical (original casting), with long hair and all.

Droxine and her father Plasus are canon characters from "The Cloud-Minders". Deltan Ambassador Iloran is "played" by Yul Brynner, as always.

**

* * *

Chapter 11 – Conveniences**

In the eyes of the unbiased beholder, Aquarius was perhaps the most beautiful – but definitely the most intriguing – world of the New Colonies. A lush water planet, classified as Class M only because of the considerable amount of its landmasses, which, however, didn't form large continents but were scattered all over the arctic and temperate climate areas. It was a relatively young world as planets go, with a dotted chain of twelve kilometron high, active volcanoes girding its equatorial belt, and with a gravity only slightly lower than standard 1 G.

The unnumbered islands varied in size from naked volcanic rocks peeking out of the ocean, offering barely enough space for sea avians to nest, to impressive landmasses as huge as Australia, on Earth. The dominating climate was pleasantly warm, like that of Earth's Mediterranean areas, and both the oceans and the larger islands had an amazing variety of native plants and animals, none of them sentient.

In other worlds, it could have become a much sought after recreation planet, just like Risa, had it not been so far on the very edge of Federation territory. But the Federation's loss was the New Colonies' gain, and for his part, President Darius was supremely content that the Aquarians had managed to claim this world for themselves.

Not only because it had fleeting similarities with their old home. Placed in the Hetari System, they had New Gemini and New Sagittara as neighbours – the former one with strong Federation contacts and a sorted-out Cylon basestar in orbit, the latter one with the strongest military in the entire sector. And while believed too young and too naïve to prevail against such scheming old _vulpine_s as Uri, Lobe or Anton, Darius had one advantage on them: he never underestimated the military.

_That_ would have been really foolish from the only son of Devon, the legendary Commander of the Fourth Fleet. And though he didn't follow his father's distinguished career (an unusual one for an Aquarian in any case), he'd been taught loyalty and tactical thinking at Devon's knees; that, and the necessity to choose one's allies well. Those teachings had motivated him to accept responsibility when _Sire_ Uri had unexpectedly tossed him into the middle of the power struggle during the elections.

Personally, he'd have preferred a quiet life – becoming a minor diplomat and visiting Federation worlds would have been his highest ambitions. But as the last living scion of a however mythical royal clan, he _had_ responsibilities towards his people. He couldn't allow _Sire_ Geller, that senile old fool and Anton's lap daggit to keep representing – or, as was mostly the case, _not_ representing – Aquarian interests any longer.

And then there had been Anton, too. The shrewd old Scorpian had very obviously had the office of the President in eye, back then, when Adama had already been out of his way. Darius had known from his late father how unpredictable and dangerous Anton could become with too much power in his hands – it had always been a most unpleasant trait by Scorpian aristocrats. Darius had been adamant (and several of his fellow Councillors had whole-heartedly agreed) that Anton's eventual election had to be prevailed.

So he had sought out alliances, shamelessly used the legendary name of his father and his own popularity among the young… and, unexpectedly enough, he had won. Which, according to his secretary, proved that the simple population was a lot wiser than its elated leaders.

Winning the elections had only been the beginning, of course; and a bumpy start it was, as the pilots liked to say. Quite a few of the scheming old – or not so old – fools had been re-elected in the _Quorum_ (which meant that the simple folk wasn't _that_ wise, after all), and they had been doing their best (or rather worst) to keep changes from happening ever since. At least he could count on Caprica, Gemini and Libra at any time, and Canceria and Virgo could usually be persuaded to support him.

But that was still only half the _Quorum_, as Piscera and Taura were extremely unpredictable, while Aries, Leonis and Scorpia had built a strong opposition, and Sagittara usually remained neutral. It was imperative that he found strong allies among the Federation worlds, to balance out his precarious position at home.

Fortunately, _that_ was an area where he could keep up his hopes. The fact that Aquarius had offered refuge to several semi-humanoid races, both during the War and their flight, appealed to the Federation greatly. Besides, they could afford it. Due to their world's peculiar geography, the handful of amphibian Hasari survivors could create their own, undisturbed environment on a number of small islands as well as the reptilian Delphians, whose remote colony they'd evacuated on their way to Earth, and who now lived on one of the major landmasses.

The mixed population and the various cultures living peacefully together on New Aquarius had attracted many Federation anthropologists, and those had called in the help of their respective homeworlds. Denebians, Deltans, Rigelians, humans of different origins had come to help, and Aquarius accepted any help they could get gladly.

The most recent great achievement had been to become the new project of Alpha III, especially as the sophisticated culture of that human colony had many similarities with the Aquarian way of life. But the greatest – and most welcome – surprise was the offer of a formal alliance, coming from Mu Leonis II, or better known by its indigenous name as Ardana.

Oh, certainly, _all_ Federation support was needed and crucial, as Federation technology was generally more advanced than its Colonial counterpart, especially that of the founding members. Yet it was Ardana's help which had been most sought after, since the very beginning. Ardana not only provided the technology to the rebuilding, they also supplied the _workers_, in great numbers. Not just engineers and technicians and mechanics like the Andorians or the Tellarites, but also skilled and reliable men who could work under the harshest circumstances and on very little food.

Darius suspected that the Ardanans must have had a very good reason to send their lower class off-planet _en masse_; that it was probably just a convenient method for them to get rid of some unwanted people without raising the suspicion of Federation observers. But he had chosen not to ask. It hadn't been the most honourable thing, but the sad truth was, the Colonies _needed_ those workers.

The refugees had done everything in their power to rebuild their worlds, but they were too few, run too ragged during the flight for a work of such magnitude. Not to mention that many of them lacked the necessary skills, too. Quite frankly, Darius was not the only one who considered the Troglyte workers as a blessing. He'd deal with his conscience later, he'd decided early on, and had been surprised to learn that _Sire_ Adama, the man with the strongest principles among them all, grudgingly agreed with him.

The offer of the Ardanan Council of Advisors to marry of to him _Siress_ Droxine, the only daughter of High Advisor Plasus, had come a bit unexpected. He'd seen records from Ardana, about the floating city of Stratos above the clouds, and also of the _siress_ herself, of course. He'd also realized that the various Federation worlds would most likely seek out their own alliances as the Colonies did. He also understood that such a formal alliance would most likely strengthen the position of Ardana within the Federation as well as that of the ruling class on their own homeworld.

So, it shouldn't have surprised him too much, after all. It seemed that Ardana needed the Colonies as much as the Colonies needed Ardana. A political marriage would formalize their alliance and ensure former Federation support. Yet he couldn't agree with the offer at once… not before he got the chance to speak with the bride chosen for him first.

There was nothing wrong with accepting an arranged Sealing of convenience, for the good of his people. But he wouldn't bind someone to himself with an unbreakable bond based on a lie.

* * *

The Lady Droxine, daughter and most cherished possession of High Advisor Oiran Plasus, observed herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in her quarters aboard the Ardanan courier ship. This was her first chance to put on proper clothes since they'd left Ardana. Her father hadn't wanted their journey to become known before he could be certain that it would provide the desired results, so they'd travelled in the guise of simple citizens.

They had met Starfleet patrols and other Federation representatives on their way, of course, but it had usually been the captain of the ship who'd dealt with those, and even if someone got a glimpse at her, they wouldn't recognize her. Although – as one of the highest celebrities of her homeworld, she frequently appeared on TriVid – this time people hadn't even guessed that she'd left Ardana. Controlling the media came handy sometimes.

Of course, they probably wouldn't have recognized him face-to-face, either. Which lay all in the clothes and the hairdo.

Droxine was considered a living artwork among her people, and in a way, it as true. Her body had been shaped to perfection by various means of genetic resequencing and constructive surgery and kept that way through rigorous diet and training. Unlike other Federation worlds that rejected, even prohibited genetic engineering, this was very normal for Ardana – even if not spoken of. Female members of the ruling class had to be _perfect_, no matter what it cost.

And she _was_ perfect, according to Ardanan norm. But that perfection had to be displayed generously, so that people could freely admire the spotless arch of her back, the fullness of her breasts as they lay heavily in the strategically placed folds of silk, the spotless smoothness of her skin. It required an intricate hairdo and large earrings that made her graceful neck look even larger, and dramatic eye make-up to emphasize the brightness of her eyes. No casual onlooker would associate _that_ image of perfection with the woman in simple travelling clothes and her hair in a tight bun.

People were used to look at her body, not at her face, despite the classic, high cheekbones and azure eyes. After all, every female member of the ruling class was blonde and blue-eyed and fair-skinned. They were _bred_ that way, and if nature failed to make them perfect, the genetic engineers did.

She sighed, pulling a bit on the heavy, stiff tail of her floor-long dress, so that it would glide behind her smoothly. Getting caught in something would have... unfortunate consequences, as the weight of the tail was what held the front of the dress in place. Not that it would have bother her to show off her beauty even more, but such exhibitionist tendencies wasn't accepted in her circles, and she had a reputation to protect. Besides, a perfect Ardanan woman wasn't allowed to be clumsy.

After a moment of consideration, she sprayed her bare shoulders and the valley between her breasts with the special perfume that increased the effects of her pheromones. It was a dirty trick, but she couldn't afford to fail. The marriage of convenience wasn't a done deal yet. President Darius had tentatively signalled his interest but wanted to meet her first. She _had_ to snare him at once. Ardana needed this alliance badly. Ever since Captain Kirk had overthrown the natural order of things on their planet, the position of her father was a very insecure one.

Oiran Plasus wasn't called king or president or any other of those meaningless titles, but he _was_ the _de facto_ ruler of Ardana. Or, at the very least, he had been, until Kirk's interference, which had left him in the not enviable position of picking up the pieces left after the visit of the _Enterprise_ and trying to establish some semblance of order again. It wasn't an easy task to perform, and its success was still far from certain.

Droxine Plasus was a princess in everything but the official title. She had always known that one day she'd have to marry a promising ally in order to secure her father's rule. She had no problems with that. She'd been born and bred and thoroughly trained for that very rule, and she knew she'd be able to play her part perfectly, no matter whom her father – or the Council of Advisors – selected for her.

In fact, the current choice was better than she could have hoped. At least President Darius was young and, assuming the holopics had not been manipulated, very pretty, with that long, wavy dark hair, those large, dark eyes and that charming smile. She'd ordered a collection of his poems previous their journey and found that – as far as she could judge by the translation – he was a talented poet. She'd have to learn Aquarian to make a better judgement, of course, but it seemed that they might make a good match.

Besides, this marriage would give her the chance to be far, far from home when the weakened structure of power came crashing down onto the heads of her father and his fellow Advisors. Which, with just a bit of bad luck, could happen any time now. She didn't want to witness that – and to be buried under the wreckage. So no, she couldn't afford to miss this chance.

She added a bit more perfume for good measure, threw her head back in the well-trained, superior manner of her class, and rushed out of her quarters, heading towards the transporter room.

* * *

No matter how many times he'd seen Federation transporters at work – or experienced their smooth working on his own body, for that matter – the effect never failed to amaze President Darius. The miraculous way as the whirling sparkles of golden light solidified into a living, breathing person (or even into a solid object) was so far beyond what had been considered science back in the Old Colonies that it seemed almost… magical.

And, he admitted as a wry afterthought, it was a great _entrée_ for any woman who wanted to impress her audience. Materializing from a column of golden light – what a way to arrive! He had to admit – aside from the fact that the dramatic _entrée_ appealed to the artist in him very much – that his bride-to-be was doing an excellent job at the impressing part.

And she was exquisite, too, even more so than on the pictures and holovids. Her slim, smooth torso reminded of that of a very young boy, with slightly board shoulders but fragile arms, a wasp's tail that he could have encircled with his hands, a flat belly that showed the results of regular yet careful workout to keep the feminine shape, lean hips and a long graceful neck.

She was practically naked to the waist, save from a broad strip of folded silk criss-crossing her firm breasts and holding a long, triangular tail tat dragged beyond her on the floor. The long shirt of the extravagant dress left her navel free and was open on one side to the hip, revealing a long, perfectly shaped leg at each step she made. Her honey-blonde hair was piled up in complicated twists, curls and knots, leaving only one long, wavy tress hanging between her shoulder blades. Large, intricate earrings dangled from her ears, almost touching her bare shoulders and emphasizing the perfect arch of her neck.

Her face was smooth and doll-like, with prominent cheekbones, rose petal lips and wide eyes of an intense blue, her eyelids made up in blue and silver, contrasting artfully the long, ink-black eyelashes. She looked all helpless and child-like, perhaps even a little scared. But when Darius met those seemingly innocent eyes for a moment, he knew at once that all the naïveté displayed in such a perfect package was nothing but show. This young woman was smart, calculating and out to conquer… with excellent results, if the slack-mouthed admiration displayed on the faces most men around was any indication.

Athena, who was watching the scene from the side, couldn't help but giggle in amusement, seeing the powerful members of the _Quorum_, richly-clad and oh-so-self-secure most of the time, opening and closing their respective mouths repeatedly, without getting out a single word.

"That's a first," she commented with a little evil satisfaction; at any other time, some councillors would drive anyone mad with their smooth speeches that always covered their true intentions under multiple levels of lies and half-truths. "I haven't seen _Sire_ Uri so speechless since he met his first Deltan."

"It's the same effect, basically," a deep, sensuous voice, that was definitely _not_ her brother's, replied, and she felt the now familiar hot shiver running through her entire body – a feeling that always indicated the presence of a Deltan. She turned around and recognized Iloran, the Federation Council member of 114-Delta V.

"Ambassador," she smiled, basking in his very enjoyable presence as she would in a warm, scented bath. "I didn't know you were in our sector again."

"I'm negotiating further support for New Gemini," the handsome, bald man kissed her hand, courteously keeping his own pheromones under tight control to spare her the embarrassment. "_Sire_ Ixion –" that was the Gemini councillor – "thought that I might enjoy this reception, so I let him talk me into accompanying him."

"And? Are you enjoying yourself?" Athena inquired.

Dealing with a Deltan of the opposite gender was always a little bit intoxicating, but in a completely harmless way. Deltans were, as a rule, brutally honest. Being telepathic, all of them, they found it more or less obligatory to speak their minds clearly, to even out the disadvantage of non-telepaths that way. As one who spent a lot of her time among double-talking diplomats, Athena found this custom of theirs very refreshing.

"Oh, extremely," Iloran assured her. "I've heard that Ardanan females have been selectively bred for centuries to regain conscious control over their pheromones, but I've never seen them actually _do_ so – until now."

Athena gave the exquisite blonde a hard look.

"So that's what she's doing?" she asked. "Trying to snare the President?"

"I believe," Iloran replied thoughtfully, "that she's already beyond the _trying_ phase. Very… informative, indeed. I didn't expect her to be _this_ good at it."

"But you're better, aren't you?" Athena asked. "You could throw her off-kilt in a _micron_, right?"

"Of course," the Deltan laughed. "In fact, I need to hold back considerately, in order _not_ to ruin her peak performance. It wouldn't be fair; you see she's doing her best."

"Her best might not be enough," Athena commented, watching President Darius, tall, elegant and extravagant as always, attending to his guest of honour. He was slightly confused, for some reason, but by far not the same slack-mouthed fool as many of his fellow councillors.

"He seems remarkably resistant," Iloran agreed in surprise. "That's… unexpected. Her pheromones are strong enough to wake the dead."

"Just not the right sort of pheromones, they aren't," Athena grinned. "President Darius is _flit_ – and fairly open about it."

The eggshell-smooth brow of Iloran furled in an uncertain frown – then he understood the hint and laughed.

"Oh. That explains his unusually strong reaction to _me_," he said. "I'll have to be careful around him, then. But since this is an arranged marriage for mutual political benefits, he'll need wed her anyway, I guess. I wonder why did he want to see her in the first place. She could have arrived with the signed marriage contracts already."

"Perhaps he wanted to see the merchandise before buying it," Athena said, a bit maliciously. Iloran gave her a searching look but decided against asking.

"He could have done worse," he said. "Ardanan noblewomen play their roles perfectly. She'll always behave as it's expected from a First Lady. She'll be decorative, friendly, well-informed and intelligent, when she has to entertain guests. She'll turn a blind eye on his… sidesteps. And she'll produce him heirs, to keep the royal bloodline of Aquarius alive. Not to mention the fact that a proper _Sealing_ – to a _woman_ – will take the wind out of the sails of the dogmatic Kobolian opposition. It's the perfect match… in political sense."

"Perhaps," Athena said reluctantly. "But he'll never be free of her again. Or she of him. A _Sealing_ cannot be undone. Ever. '_Til death do us part'_ – so is it sworn in the ritual."

"Why would either of them want it undone?" Iloran asked. "All Ardanan noblewomen ever wish is a proper marriage that elevates their status. Personal interests play no role whatsoever in their choices. And she'll be the perfect screen for him, behind which he can pursue his… _other_ interests."

"It's still not right," Athena said stubbornly.

The Deltan shook his bald head. "It's not for us to be the judge of that, _Siress_ Athena. Let them negotiate the terms of their alliance in private."

* * *

Droxine made it through the extremely long reception almost in autopilot. The proper greetings and smiles were so indoctrinated in her very nature that she didn't need to pay much attention to executing them. Instead, she watched the people closely – and with suspicion – trying to find out who could be her main concurrent in the fight for President Darius' attention.

The young man's almost complete lack of reaction to her pheromones had disturbed her greatly. She knew he was physically hale – she had received the necessary medical records, and besides, there had been a side note of him wanting heirs. Most other males present (with the exception of the very old) had been completely overwhelmed – _drooling idiots_ would have been the correct phrase, had she, well-bred Ardanan aristocrat as she was, not refrained from using such crude expressions. So what was wrong with her pre-selected husband?

Was he involved with someone already? Deeply enough to withstand any other temptation on a biochemical level? No, she doubted it. Human males were not made that way, and while President Darius originated from a different galaxy, genetically he was one hundred per cent human – and _very_ male, according to his medical file. Despite his vaguely androgynous looks, his testosterone levels were well above average. How could he _possible_ have withstood her, then?

And yet he most definitely had. She couldn't notice any of the usual reactions – aside from some mild confusion and a slight blush, which was more due to the situation than to her person.

She continued her way through the spacious ballroom that hosted the reception, exchanging polite words and reserved smiles, as it was expected from her, but her inner turmoil was increasing. She was _not_ allowed to fail. That would mean the end of her father's rule back home and exile for her on some backward Federation planet. And if she could never return to Stratos, not even for short visits, what was life truly worth? Living in the dirt, on the planet surface, was bad enough – well, at least New Aquarius was a _pretty_ planet. If she had to give up life in the clouds, at least she wanted a pleasant place in exchange.

"_Siress_ Droxine," a low, polite voice murmured in her right.

Turning, she saw the slender young man in the customary white of Aquarian employees she'd noticed earlier in Darius' company. A handsome man of perhaps thirty, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a pale skin and smooth, even features.

"Yes," she said with patrician indifference. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Leandros, President Darius' personal aide," he replied. "The President would like to have a word with you, _Siress_… in private."

"That would be hardly appropriate," considering the circumstances," she said dismissively.

The aide smiled. He had an infectious smile, but Droxine had the nagging suspicion that he was hiding something… a lot of things, actually. Well, as the confidant of President Darius, he probably was.

"There's no need for concern," he said. "President Darius is waiting for you on the gallery," he pointed upwards discretely. "You'll be in full sight all the time. We don't want any… misunderstandings, either."

Droxine looked up. She could indeed see her husband-to-be standing among the carved pillars of the small balcony. With his long, dark hair falling in waves to the small of his back, he offered a truly picturesque view was even more emphasized by his light, aqua robe, embroidered with silver and small pearls. He was doubtlessly very handsome – and very visible up there.

"All right," Droxine said. "Show me the way, please. Perhaps it will be useful for us to speak openly with each other."

* * *

The official announcement about President Darius' _Sealing_ with the Lady Droxine Plasus of Ardana was made on the same evening. Elegantly phrased communiqués were sent to all major Federation worlds, including the invitation to witness the ceremony – the very first Kobolian _Sealing_ between a Colonial nobleman of royal blood and a Federation aristocrat. That was an event of great importance for both sides.

The press went completely nuts, of course. Whole ships filled with newspeople and TriVid reporters and camera teams made their way to New Aquarius at best speed, to make reports about the Wedding of the Century™. High-ranking Federation representatives boarded their private yachts and hurried over to the Kobol sector to see the event – and to be seen participating. Being in the public eye could never hurt, after all; _being_ important wasn't enough – one also needed to _appear_ important. But the event also put the New Colonies in the news again, which was badly needed, in order to secure themselves further Federation support.

"I'm beginning to realize that President Darius may be a lot shrewder than I'd have given him credit for," Apollo remarked on the day of the wedding. He and Athena were standing together in the room where the ceremony was supposed to take place, while Adama was still with the bridespeople in the back chamber.

"Perhaps he is," Athena replied. "I still can't believe that Father was willing to take part in this scheme. It's not like him. He usually takes matters of faith more seriously."

"What did you expect him to do?" Apollo asked seriously. "To refuse the President's request? He's the closest thing we have to a Kobolian priest – had he refused his blessing, it would have dire consequences. Consequences the _Quorum_ can't afford right now. The balance of power is precarious enough as it is – undermining the President's authority would be fatal. You know that better than I. Why are you against this _Sealing_ so much?"

"Because it's fake," Athena said bitterly. "People who _Seal_ for eternity are supposed to do so out of love, not for political reasons. That's what civilian marriages are for."

"Oh, come on!" Apollo laughed. "You were every bit this… unpleasant when I _Sealed_ with Serina three yahrens ago. Or do you doubt that we loved each other?"

"I don't doubt for a micron that _you_ loved her very much," Athena replied. Apollo gave her a sharp look.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" he asked with a frown.

Athena shook her head. "When I know more, I'll tell you," she said. "So far, all I have are vague suspicions."

"I don't understand you," Apollo said, disappointed. "I thought you and Serina were friends."

"We were on friendly terms," Athena corrected, "for your sake. She never had any friends. Only admirers – or adversaries. Those were the only terms she was capable of thinking."

Apollo wanted to make a sharp riposte, but the first tones of the most popular Aquarian wedding anthem interrupted their discussion. It was a slow, melodious piece that had survived the destruction due to the fact that the _Rising Star_ had once been used as a place for spectacular marriages performed in space. Everyone felt silent, waiting for the beginning of the Sealing Ceremony.

New Aquarius being a multi-cultural world, the inhabitants belonged to a wide variety of religious communities. That meant they would have had to build just as many different temples – which they couldn't afford. Habitats and industrial buildings were the priority. Thus they had chosen to build _one_ large hall that was decorated according to the customs of the community that was using it at any given time.

At the moment, it represented an ancient Kobolian temple. The walls were hung with dark velvet drapes, adorned with golden symbols in Old Kobolian: matching quotes from the Script for a _Sealing_. The hall was shaped like a small amphitheatre, just in rectangular form, with three wide rows of stars leading down to the arena-like middle section. On the fourth side, within a sea of burning candles, a simple stone altar stood, and on the altar, in an open velvet box, lay the silver broche with the white gem – the symbol of the Lords of Kobol and Adama's power.

Apollo felt his chest tighten seeing this scenario. It was eerily similar to the surroundings in which is own _Sealing_ took place, aboard the _Galactica_. Even the wedding dress of the Lady Droxine looked like an exact copy of Serina's: all the white tull and taffeta, shoulder-free, with a long, transparent veil attached to her wreath of Aquarian gamosepalous nightblooms – one of the very few flowers whose seeds could be saved from the old worlds. Another rare specimen from their lost home, pale lavender Scorpian orchids, decorated the simple altar.

"She's truly beautiful," Apollo said, eyeing the bride. "They make a very pretty couple."

That they were indeed. President Darius, too, cut a handsome figure in the simple white robes of a Colonial councillor, wearing only a long, sleeveless surcoat of golden mesh over them.

The doors of the hall opened, and Adama, in his midnight-blue-and-silver dress uniform, with cape and collar and all, walked in. The music ended, and the cavernous room fell silent. Adama announced the names of the parties that were about to be _Sealed_, as custom demanded, then he looked at High Advisor Plasus, who stood in the circle of a few selected Ardanan nobles, all in their finest festive robes, proud and determined.

"Will the protector of Droxine consent to relinquishing his responsibility to Darius, the man she's chosen to be _Sealed_ to?" he asked.

Plasus, his bearded face shining with success and triumph, nodded.

"Yes," he declared in a strong voice.

Someone offered the open box to Adama. He took out the sacred medallion and held it up for all to see.

"The simple words I'm about to speak are the most powerful in the universe," he declared. "They seal a union between this man and this woman, which is not only for now but for all eternity."

He took the long chain of the medallion in hand and – according to ancient ritual – wrapped it loosely around the clasped hands of the bridespeople.

"Darius… Droxine," he continued. "Under the eyes of God, and bound by the symbol of the faith of the Lords of Kobol, I declare you _Sealed_."

Darius turned to his newly wed wife and kissed her on the lips in a gentle but detached manner. The low murmur of the guests was broken by the beginning of the recessional music and the good wishes of friends and allies. Unlike Droxine, the President had no living family left.

"Well," Athena said, after having paid her respects to the new couple, "now they have each other, and no power of the universe can change that. Let's hope they are able to live with that lie forever."

"Their problem, not ours," Apollo reminded her. "They went into this with their eyes wide open. And we've both wasted enough time here when we're needed in other places."

"Are you returning to the _Galactica_?" Athena asked. Apollo nodded.

"It's about time," he said, "I've been away for too long. Care to come with me for a visit? Some of the old crew are still aboard, and I'm sure they'd be happy to see you again."

"And I'd be happy to meet them," Athena sighed. "But I can't, not now. I've something more… urgent to do, and that soon."

"Another mission in Federation territory?" Apollo teased. Athena shook her head.

"No," she said seriously, "This time, it's uncomfortably close to home."

**

* * *

End notes:**

_Flit_ is a fanon expression for gay people, created by fellow _Galactica_ writer Karen Davis.

The words of the Sealing Ceremony are directly taken from the episode "The Lost Planet of Gods".


	12. Chapter 12 Wandering in Mist

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes: **For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

Jewel, the Minaran empath, is wearing a similar outfit as Gem wore in the episode "The Empath". I'm not entirely sure about the medo-babble, so I apologize for any mistakes I might have made.

**

* * *

Chapter 12 – Wandering in Mist **

To say that Gabriel was anxious approaching the therapy room of Sickbay would have been an understatement. He was positively hysterical. He'd have probably chickened out, if not for Jolly's solid presence. The big guy had readily agreed to accompany him, and Gabriel had the weird feeling that Jolly's unshakable bulk was the only thing anchoring him to sanity.He felt _safe_ with Jolly; it was a good feeling.

It was a good thing, too, that the pilots and mechanics of the border patrol counted, by the slight extension of Hunter's authority, as Starfleet personnel – at least when it came to medical care. He doubted he'd ever be able to trust a civilian therapist – or any Colonial psychotech, for that matter. Whatever might have happened to him, whatever trauma had caused his memory loss, he could be reasonably sure that Starfleet had _not_ been involved.

Nonetheless, he was shaking with fear when the slide doors opened for them and the Vulcan therapist rose from her desk.

"Greetings," she said calmly. "I'm T'Mir, a healer. I shall lead your first session."

"Y-you?" Gabriel stuttered. "I- I thought a Deltan..."

The Vulcan nodded. "I shall hand over your case to Dr. Krnsandor'naar after the first phase. However, Vulcans are better suited to guide a patient through the first couple of sessions, as those are, basically, a series of rather… _mechanical_ mental exercises. There is no need to worry, Lieutenant. I am not going to touch your emotions – all I shall do is to help you identify the kind of memory block you are having. Dr. Krnsandor'naar will be dealing with the memories themselves."

Gabriel was practically rooted in the doorframe, unable to move, either towards the Vulcan or away from her.

"C'mon, Bucko," Jolly murmured, nudging him gently. "There's no use – you must just bite the bullet and go through this."

_You must bite the bullet_, he'd said, and for a moment, a disjointed memory flashed through Gabriel's mind. He saw a large, dimly-lit barrack with bunk beds and a dozen or so pilots, naked to the waist, watching four others who were playing pyramid at a table. One of the players was eerily familiar – until he recognized his younger self, with an unruly mop of tawny hair, and in a Colonial pilot's uniform. He was looking up at a big, fat pilot with sparsely strewn dark fur on his broad back – a younger Jolly, he realized with a jolt – who was saying: _We'll have to bite the bullet and get through this game, Bucko!_

He looked at Jolly questioningly. "Tell me, buddy… have we ever played pyramid with a bunch of Colonial pilots?"

The other man grinned. "Uncounted times, in fact."

"Yeah, but was there one particular time when you and a couple of others were shirtless and gave me handfuls of those little golden pieces…"

"Cubits," Jolly supplied helpfully.

"Right, cubits," Gabriel nodded. "You were keeping them in some kind of pouch under your pillows… and you were _not_ happy to give them to me. I sat at a table with two guys who looked exactly the same and had the weird custom to repeat each other's sentences…"

"Gemoni twins," Jolly said, becoming pale like dough. "That was at _Cimtar_… on the very day when the fracking Cylons lured us all into a trap and destroyed our homeworlds and almost the entire Fleet with them."

Gabriel shook his heard. "All I can remember is you saying: _We'll have to bite the bullet and get through this game, Bucko!"_

"And that is a good sign," the Vulcan healer, whom they had both forgotten, interjected. "It means that your memories have begun to resurface."

"_All_ of them?" Gabriel asked, not quite sure that he actually wanted that. The Vulcan nodded.

"Eventually, they would," she replied. „Once such flashbacks as you have just experienced have started, the rest will follow. Was it not the result you were aiming for?"

"Well, I'd certainly like to know who I really am," Gabriel grumbled, "but I'm not so eager to relive the experience that made me forget in the first place."

"That is understandable," the Vulcan said. "You have no reason to worry, though. Dr. Krnsandor'naar and I will guide you through the process, and if necessary, we will bring in Jewel as well. However, first I need to make a purely psychical scan of your brain – for medical purposes. We shall then compare it with the one that was made when you were found, to see if there are any physical conditions that have changed since then."

"You mean whether I've suffered some sort of brain damage in the meantime?" Gabriel asked with a worried frown.

"On the contrary," the Vulcan replied calmly. "I expect that we will find signs of _increased_ activity, at least in certain areas of your brain. A first step of healing, if you want to put it so."

"Oh," Gabriel said intelligently, and climbed onto the biobed without a further argument. Jolly suppressed a grin, remembering how much _Starbuck_ had used to hate physicals. Of course, circumstances had been quite different back then.

T'Mir brought some sort of medical scanner in position above Gabriel's head and attached small, twin devices to his temple by simple pressure – they must have had some adhesive surface, because they stayed in place firmly. Then she started the medical log, making a simple record of the examination that was taking place, in order to recover Lt. Demos' lost memories, and then switched it off again. There was no need to say more; Lt. Demos' memory loss was recorded already.

The examination itself only took a few centons – _minutes_, Jolly corrected himself absent-mindedly. It didn't seem to bother Star… _Gabriel_ much; if anything, he looked a little bored, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling where was absolutely nothing to see. Jolly expected him to start fidgeting any moment now. Finally, the Vulcan doctor declared the first scan finished and removed the apparatus.

"You will have to come back for more scans every other day," she said, "so that we can compare the records and map any changes. Do you wish to take a look inside your brain?"

"Of course," Gabriel said. "But you'll have to explain me what am I seeing."

"I can do that," the Vulcan agreed and turned the screen to him. "You can see the graphic of your brain on this monitor here: the representations of axons and neurons. They are firing with general uniformity, except in this one area. This section, near your hippocampus, is firing very erratically. Clearly, something is out of order here."

"And what exactly?" Gabriel asked. T'Mir almost shrugged… almost. Working with humans must have been rubbing off.

"I would not risk forming a hypothesis without analyzing the data first – that would be unprofessional," she answered. "Also, I need to consult Dr. Krnsandor'naar in this matter."

"How long would it take?" Gabriel asked nervously.

T'Mir calculated the necessities in her mind for a moment.

"I shall need about two point nine standard hours for the analysis," she finally said. "I cannot predict when Dr. Krnsandor'naar would find the time for a consultation. But I can promise with a probability of ninety-five point six per cent that we will have a hypothesis by your next appointment."

Jolly and Gabriel exchanged grins of understanding. Vulcans could be involuntarily funny sometimes – especially when they were completely serious. As usual, T'Mir showed no understanding for their amusement.

"I understand that the two of you share quarters at the moment," she looked at Jolly in askance. The fat pilot nodded.

"The embassy of Alpha III offered Gabriel temporary quarters, as long as he can't work to come up for his living, and he asked me to move in with him as long as I'm on the Starbase," he explained.

"That is… convenient," the doctor said. "I expect further flashbacks to happen, and it would be very helpful if someone would be with him. Someone familiar."

"I don't need a babysitter!" Gabriel protested.

The Vulcan gave him a patient look that was just a little bit exaggerated.

"You can stay here, of course, where we can observe your status twenty-four hours a day," she said. "The private sick rooms are very comfortable for humans, I am told."

As expected, Gabriel back-pedalled very quickly.

"No, no," he said hurriedly, "I'll be fine with Jolly."

Having achieved her goal, T'Mir released them till the day after tomorrow.

* * *

It was a tense and visibly nervous Gabriel, who appeared in Sickbay two days later, with Jolly in tow. He'd had two very bad nights, plagued by violent nightmares and very little sleep. The strain was visible due to the dark rings under his eyes that seemed to have grown enormously in his lean face, and in the nervous twitching of his hands. If they weren't grown men, both of them, he'd probably have held Jolly's large paws for support. 

This time, the Vulcan doctor wasn't waiting for them alone but in the company of two of her colleagues. One of these was a male Deltan of indefinable age; slim, bald and beautiful, with large violet eyes, like most of his people, wearing the usual blue uniform of Starfleet's Medical Division. The other one was a civilian: a sweet-faced young woman with short-cropped, auburn hair, in a form-fitting dark coverall, over which she was wearing a short-sleeved, shimmering translucent gown; it was a fairly strange outfit.

"Allow me to make the introductions," T'Mir said. "Dr. Krnsandor'naar Ka'ndowali is a therapist and has treated members of many different races with success," the Deltan bowed gracefully but didn't stretch out his hand. "And Jewel is a Minaran empath, a mind-healer. She will be the one to finish your treatment, Lieutenant, after Dr. Krnsandor'naar and I have done our part."

The young woman gave them a brilliant smile but didn't say a word. Gabriel frowned.

"Was it really necessary to bring in more people? I'd prefer that as few know about the whole thing as possible."

"It _was_ necessary," the Vulcan replied, completely unfazed. "It is our duty to help you at the best of our abilities, and that is what we are going to do. We have assembled a team of people who are best qualified to heal you, assumed a healing is possible. That is something we can only determine during therapy. But we shall do out best."

"You promised him a hypothesis, doc," Jolly said quietly, seeing that Gabriel was too nervous to ask.

T'Mir nodded. "And I can offer you one. We have discussed the data and came to the conclusion that the repressed memories could be set free again. In fact, they _need_ to be set free, or else they will cause the lieutenant severe psychological trauma that might result in mental instability. It is surprising that he has not had more problems in the recent two years. This is a serious condition."

"_He_ is standing right here," Gabriel growled. "And _he'd_ appreciate if you could explain _him_ what's wrong with _him_."

"Our apologies, Lieutenant," the Deltan took over smoothly. His voice was surprisingly deep and mellow for such a slender man, making Jolly wonder if he was considerably older than his youthful looks.

"Basically, the memory engrams in the dorsal region of your hippocampus are being disrupted," he continued. "There are definitely traumatic memories struggling to surface again, but – due to the disruption – you can't have conscious access to them. As long as you don't, there's no chance for any therapist to help you deal with the trauma, and the battle between conscious and unconscious could cause you great harm. So we'll help you to build a bridge to these suppressed memories of yours."

"How?" Gabriel asked, doubt clearly written in his face. The Deltan gestured towards his colleagues elegantly.

"That would be T'Mir's job," he said. "Vulcans have unique abilities in that area. When we've found the exact location of the damage, I'll help you to face the memories and to file them away safely, so that they won't bother you beyond endurance. When we've sorted it all out, Jewel will take over, to heal the damage the trauma had caused. We won't take the memories away; that would be maiming the person that you are. But we'll help you to shove them into the right perspective, and we'll heal the pain. Would that be acceptable?"

Gabriel thought about it for a moment. Personally, he would have preferred to leave the memories of torture forgotten, but the Deltan was right. Whether he wanted or not, _that_, too, was now part of him – he still had the scars to prove it – and he'd never be able to become himself again, if he didn't face what had been done to him, no matter how painful the process might be.

"Yes," he said quietly. "It is acceptable."

"Good," the Deltan nodded. "The first step, and I'd suggest that we make it right away, would be a so-called mind-meld, performed by T'Mir. Do you know what a Vulcan mind-meld is?"

"The thing when Vulcans grab your head and read your thoughts," Gabriel said with a shrug. The Deltan laughed – it was a melodic and pleasant sound.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," he corrected. "T'Mir will not read your thoughts – she'll try to localize the time and event that lead to your memory blockade. She'll determine how strong that block is, and what its extent might be,"

"She can do that?" Gabriel was impressed.

"That and more," he Deltan replied. "Vulcans are the best at that kind of survey. She'll map your mental landscape, set the landmarks for me, so that I can help you unfold the memories themselves."

"Will I…" Gabriel hesitated. "Will I feel anything?"

The Deltan shrugged elegantly. "Not physically, you won't. But I can't tell you in advance what the experience will be like. It's different for everyone. You have nothing to fear, though. We won't do anything you're not willing to let happen. _You're_ the one who sets the speed."

Gabriel swallowed convulsively. "All right, then. What do I do?"

"Nothing," T'Mir replied simply. "Close your eyes, relax, and let me do all the work."

The phrasing made both Gabriel and Jolly snicker, used to associate a vastly different context to that particular phrase. T'Mir, missing the subtext, gave them the perfect Vulcan eyebrow.

"While I cannot imagine what you might find so amusing, Lieutenant, I must insist that we be left alone," she said. "We need quiet and privacy for this particular exercise."

"Please," Gabriel said hurriedly, "can't at least Jolly stay with me? It… it would help me to relax." _It would make me feel safe_, he added in thought, but that wasn't something he'd be willing to say loudly. Not yet.

After a moment of consideration, T'Mir nodded.

"Very well," she said. "But you must remain silent, Sergeant, and do not try to interfere, even if what you see frightens you. You have to trust me that I would not harm the Lieutenant. Interference from the outside _could_ cause great harm, though. Do you understand what I mean?"

Jolly nodded, although clearly not comfortable with the whole situation. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Good," T'Mir glanced at the Deltan and the Minaran. "Leave us alone, please."

A mind-meld was a delicate and very intimate process. The presence of Sergeant Jolly would be a minor distraction, but she was experienced enough to deal with it. The presence of other telepaths, however, especially as strong ones as the Deltan, would be too much at the moment.

"Now, Lieutenant," she said when the three of them were left alone, "we shall sit down in these chairs, facing each other."

Not without a healthy amount of apprehension, Gabriel obeyed, shooting Jolly a last, agitated look. The Vulcan seated herself calmly, waiting for him to collect himself.

"And now close your eyes," she instructed. Gabriel obeyed, feeling strangely small and vulnerable, not knowing what to expect. A moment later, he felt the Vulcan's fingertips resting on his face and temples, gently, barely touching. They were warm and dry, the feeling not entirely unpleasant. Some of the tension poured out of his body as he listened to the murmured mantra. "My mind to your mind… my thoughts to your thoughts…"

They sat there, unmoving, for quite a while, until Gabriel gradually relaxed.

"Now, imagine that your mind is a house, with closed doors and shuttered windows," T'Mir continued softly. "I am standing at the front door, knocking. _Would you allow me to enter?_"

To Gabriel's utter shock, the last sentence wasn't spoken out loudly. It came directly from mind to mind. For a moment, he tensed up again, trying to fight the intruder – then he understood that T'Mir wouldn't enter without invitation.

_Yes_, he tried to send back the answer the same way. _Please, come in._

_I cannot_, T'Mir replied. _Not, unless you open the front door for me. I shall not force you. Never._

That calmed down Gabriel considerably, and he tried to imagine a door opening. A simple wooden door, like the one _Isme_ had in that little house, near the Thorn Forest.

And suddenly, there he was again, a small boy of perhaps six _yahrens_, playing with his grey _felix_ in the front yard. _Isme_ was there, too, repairing a tear in his tunic, a tear he had caused when climbing one of the thorn trees. She was singing softly, her dark hair in a lose knot on the nape of her neck, her dark eyes sometimes glancing at him with love.

Gabriel felt himself smiling; _Isme_ was a good memory, a wonderfully comforting one. He could have stayed there forever, basking in the happiness of his early childhood.

But the picture was snatched away all too soon, replaced by the horrible one of fire and explosions and the terrified screams. He now recognized the silver objects swooping down from the sky like hungry vultures as Cylon raiders. He saw _Isme_ again, her long hair in fire, her face and hands smeared with blood, and he heard her desperate cry, _Run, Gabriel, run!_

And he ran. The Thorn Forest was close, and unless the Cylons decided to burn it to the ground, he was safe there. He could hide in the trees. He knew his way up there and knew how to hide there with the small animals that lived in the boughs.

Fortunately for him, the Cylons rarely made the effort to land and finish the work of destruction. They were more interested ins spreading terror as widely as possible than in the handful of survivors that didn't have a home left to return to.

So they didn't return to burn the Thorn Forest to the ground. Gabriel hid there for days, only daring to come forth when the rescue troops arrived. But when they had finally found him, he didn't remember anything. Not his own name, not that of _Isme_, or that of the man who had sometimes visited them. Just the fire and the terror and the destruction.

The rescue team brought him to one of the numerous orphanages, together with hundreds of other children. And since he couldn't tell them his name, they gave him one.

They named him _Starbuck_.

Gabriel opened his eyes and blinked. T'Mir was still sitting opposite him, but her falted hands were resting on her lap.

"Is it over?" he asked.

"For today," the Vulcan replied. "We need to progress slowly. But you have done well – surprisingly well for someone who has never experienced a mind-meld before."

"Can't we continue?" Gabriel asked, his disappointment surprising even himself. "We have barely begun. I know now that I'm Starbuck – but I have no idea who this Starbuck is."

"And I ask you not to do any research," the Vulcan said. "That would be counterproductive to what we are trying to achieve here. Besides, you have been considered dead for the last three years. Should your true identity be revealed before you have fully regained your memories, I am told that certain people would do everything to _keep_ you dead."

"I seem to have made a few very dedicated enemies, it seems," Gabriel looked at Jolly. "Any idea who those might be?"

The fat pilot shook his head. "No… and that is the problem. The mutual agreement is that you'd better remain Lieutenant Gabriel Demos, until we can find out what's going on behind the scenes. Being a Federation citizen is the safest possible disguise for you."

"Yeah, but I'm _not_ a Federation citizen," Gabriel pointed out.

"Not yet," Jolly said. "But the embassy of Alpha III is working on it. You'll become full citizenship on your own right, as soon as they work themselves through the entire bureaucracy."

"But what do I need Federation citizenship for when we can find out who I really am?" Gabriel asked, a little confused.

"Because we can't say how long you'll have to hide," Jolly replied simply. "Besides, dual citizenship does have its advantages, you know."

"Perhaps," Gabriel allowed reluctantly. "But why can't we go on right away? I want _answers_, preferably in this century, if possible."

"You need to rest," T'Mir answered. "You might not realize, but letting me in has cost you great efforts. You are untrained and inexperienced in such matters, and your mind is in a delicate state. We must be very careful. Rest until tomorrow, and try not to force yourself to remember."

"That's easier said than done," Gabriel commented sourly.

"I know," the Vulcan said. "Nonetheless, it must be done. Sergeant, your cooperation is of utmost importance here. I want you to discuss with the lieutenant the memories he has relived during the meld – nothing else. He will know what he has seen… ask him for details. Do not allow him to search for different memories, that would do more harm than good. Are you up to the task?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Jolly replied. "Dr. Krnsandor has explained me what to do."

"Very well," T'Mir nodded. "I release you into the sergeant's care then, Lieutenant, and I expect you to follow his instructions. My colleagues have prepared him for this – he knows what he is doing."

With that, they were released for the rest of the day and could return to their shared quarters in the habitat area.

"And what, exactly, _will_ you be doing?" Gabriel asked, keying in the opening code.

"Oh, but that would be telling," Jolly replied with an unrepentant grin. "Besides, it would falsify the test results if you knew anything in advance."

Gabriel shook his head in exasperation but followed him in nonetheless. All things considered, he was content with the headway they'd made so far. It might still be a long way until he could find his memories, but at least he was on the right path.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13 In the Labyrinth

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad **

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR **

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

I've based my version of the Gemoni culture on what little we know about the ancient Minoan culture of Crete. Apparently, I've also added a lot of twists, just for fun. It has nothing to do with canon. But again, canon didn't tell us a lot about Gemini, did it?

**

* * *

Chapter 13 – In the Labyrinth **

As Adama rarely left New Caprica in these days, it seemed only logical in the eyes of everyone that he used his short stay in the Hatari system (due to President Darius' Sealing) to shuttle over to new Gemini and visit the Potnia. The actual head of the Gemoni state never left the planet in peacetime, so the only way to meet her was to go where she dwelt. And Adama had things to discuss with her; things that couldn't be entrusted anyone else, not even to the reliable _Sire_ Ixion.

The tribe of the Gemons had various traits that set them aside from the people of the other colonies. One of those traits was a specific genetic aberration: a small mutation of the Y chromosome that resulted in the birth of identical twins, whenever the foetus was male. Well, in ninety-nine times out of a hundred. This statistical fact led to the practice of polyandry – as such twins usually had a weak telepathic bond from birth on and thus got attracted to the same women – as well as to incestual homosexual bonds between some of those twins. Both practices were sanctioned by the state and the priestesses, although any other form of incest was strictly prohibited and punished.

Female children were almost always single births, and due to the low numbers of women (compared with those of men) they were highly valued. Gemini was the only colony ruled by a female-dominated theocracy – even if it didn't look that way from the outside. The politicians and ambassadors and councillors were always male, but the real power lay in the hands of the women, exercised through their religion.

Gemonese religion was basically dualistic. The two opposite principles it was based on – interpreted in such dual terms as light and darkness, good and bad, truth and lies, soul and body, and in many other ways – were anthropomorphized in the shape of the twin goddesses, Pallas and Hecate. The twin goddesses were incorporated by the Potnia, the high priestess, who – contrary to common belief – was not _one_ person but a pair of identical twins. As rare as female twins were, a few could be found in every generation, and they were unexceptionally brought to the temple – the Labyrinth as it was called – to be taught and raised for the eventuality that they might be chosen to become the next Potnia.

The two aspects of the Potnia mirrored Gemonese religious dualism very clearly. One of them, always called _the Pallas_, was the head of the state and the curator of the Labyrinth, served by virgin priestesses and untouched herself. She was the one Adama needed to talk to, as hers was the final – and deciding – vote in every political decision.

The other one, _the Hecate_, was the head and the teacher of the _socialators_ and the dean of their Academy. She was also the secret ruler of the Labyrinth, who performed ritual couplings with the king – or, in modern times, the Gemonese _Quorum_ member – to reinstate him in his office on a regular basis. She also took visiting dignitaries to her bed to seal contracts.

Young Gemonese males, regardless of their sexual orientation, were always _initiated_ in the Labyrinth by highly skilled _socialators_ (called _haeteras_ in Gemonese) before allowed to become intimate with their chosen partner. Male _socialators_, albeit rare, also existed, but they were restricted to the Labyrinth, and their service could only be requested from the Hecate, as they were crucial for the proper training of _socialators_. The Academy for _socialators_ was also situated by the Labyrinth, of course.

Most outsiders thought that the Otori sect followed a different religion than the rest of the Gemons, as they seemed to oppose just about every official practice. Adama knew better. He'd been told long ago that the Otori were closed-minded fanatics, only willing to accept _one_ of the goddesses: Pallas, who stood for light, virginity, reason, truth, and so on. They declared Hecate and her followers dirty whores, agents of the darkness and death, perverted criminals. They had only rejected polyandry and the incestuous bond of identical twins at first, but later they had come to reject every kind of sexual contact, unless it was sanctioned by their own priests during the sunstorm, at which time they believed Pallas could not see them.

At first sight, it seemed a fairly stupid ideology. But when Adama had studied religious history in his youth he had realized that it all came from very simple roots. The original founders of the sect had been single-born men who thought they were something better than the other males because there was only one of them. This self-declared superiority then led to the rejection of the twin principle on a religious basis. They went so far that they only allowed twin-born males among them when their twin brother had died previously. And they considered female twins as the absolute abomination.

To one of those abominations was Adama going now; to Eraklion, the capital city of New Gemini, that was situated in the mediterranean zone of the planet. Unlike the Virgons or the Librans, for example, the Gemons had a relatively large number of survivors, but not as large that they wouldn't fit into a single settlement. And Eraklion was a settlement worth a visit for everyone, not only for people who actually had something to do there.

At this time, even a year and a half after the Colonial refugees had crossed the anomaly between galaxies, Eraklion's construction was still far from complete. The architects from Alpha III had raised the most important buildings, leaving the details to the Deltans who'd taken over the rest. Currently, the city was growing in concentric circles from its centre.

The architecture, as Carolyn Palamas had mentioned in her report to Federation authorities, strongly reminded of that of Minoan Crete on Earth, only with the comforts of modern life and advanced technology. Human archaeologists especially delighted in Gemonese written languages – according to the general dualism upon which every aspect of Gemonese life was based, they had two different alphabets, one for sacral and one for profane use. They seemed as the advanced version of the old Minoan Linear A and Linear B scripts, which human archaeologists and linguists had never managed to decode – until now. None of those similarities were exactly surprising, of course, considering that the Minoan realm had originally been founded by the Gemoni members of the so-called Thirteenth Tribe.

Adama had often visited the Labyrinth – the sacral district of Old Gemini, which also happened to be the seat of the planetary government. He wasn't surprised that the new Labyrinth turned out an almost exact copy of the old one. Gemons were a strictly tradition-bound people, wherever their beliefs were considered.

The residence of the Potnia(s) was a terraced villa that also happened to be the only entrance to the actual Labyrinth hidden below. The emergency escape doors of the subterranean sacral complex only allowed people _out_, not _in_. The _Knossos_ itself, as the palace-like villa had been traditionally called since the beginnings, wasn't all that different from the other patrician residences, at least not for the naked eye. It was a conglomerate of numerous _stoas_, gardens with sculptures and fountains, and its airy rooms were decorated with merry scenes in bright colours: processions, hunting scenes, scenes from the simple daily life and so on, all of them depicted with great artistic skills and obvious delight. Adama had always suspected that the sacral paintings must have been down in the Labyrinth itself, but as a non-Gemon, he never got invited there, so that remained a mere suspicion.

The Potnia – or, to be more accurate, the _Pallas_ – the profane incarnation of the ruling power on Gemini – welcomed them in an audience chamber: a room that was veiled by heavy curtains from the prying eyes. It also seemed the only room there that was guarded. The identical-looking young men standing on both sides of the heavy, reliefed bronze doors, seemed like mere courtiers in their knee-length, brightly coloured tunics and short capes, but there was strength in their bare arms and legs, and their seemingly decorative spears were, in fact, highly sophisticated laser rifles with considerable firepower.

They allowed Adama entry without question; he was expected, after all, _and_ well known as one of the Potnia's reliable allies as well as an old friend of _Sire_ Ixion. While they did cast Athena curious (not to mention appreciative) glances, they didn't question _her_ presence, either.

The Pallas was already waiting for them. She was a tall, slender woman of indefinable age, with a pale, smooth, ageless face, fair hair that she wore in a peculiar, turban-like hairdo, and grey eyes. She was wearing an old, traditional attire that Gemoni women only wore on great feasts in these times: several plaited skirts, each one considerably shorter than the one below it, and a short-sleeved, form-fitting waistcoat adorned with thin, golden applications in the shape of snakes. The whole thing seemed fairly uncomfortable, but she was probably long used to wearing it. It was her official ornate, after all.

She greeted her visitors in a genuinely friendly manner, expressing her pleasure that she'd finally gotten to know Athena, of whom she'd already heard a lot from Adama.

"Nonetheless, I have the feeling that this isn't just a social visit, old friend," she added, turning to Adama, who nodded, not the least surprised. Female Gemoni twins were known for their strong empathic powers, and well-trained in using those powers. While they couldn't read _thoughts_, they were almost infallible at the interpreting of other people's mood and feelings.

"No, indeed," he answered. "I've come out of concern for our future. I have reason to fear that the uneasy alliance formed by the thousand-yahren-old struggle against the Cylons might break apart along the fracture lines of tribal interests again, now that we finally have peace. And unless we act quickly and with great care, it might happen disturbingly soon."

The Pallas nodded thoughtfully. "I share your concern," she said. "The signs aren't promising. Do you know who is behind the conspiracy? Because I seriously doubt that Uri would have the necessary influence – or subtlety – to work out something that long-winded. Although Aeriana might."

"Aeriana is impatient and not shrewd enough," Adama replied. The Pallas thought about that for a moment.

"True," she agreed. "What about Antiochus, then? He is old, but not half as dotardly as he'd like us to believe. And he had power, influence, money – _and_ intelligence to pull something like that through."

"I, too, believe that he's the hidden puppeteer," Adama said. "He and Berenice."

The Pallas raised an eyebrow. "Berenice is dead," she reminded him.

"No, she's not," Adama replied heavily. "We all believed her dead, true, which was probably what she wanted us to believe. But it turns out that she'd been hiding on the senior ship, under a false identity, during the entire flight."

"Where is she now?" the Pallas asked.

"She lives on New Leonis, of course, still under that false name," Adama replied. "Someone _has_ to keep an eye on Uri, after all."

"And she is related to Uri's wife, the late _Siress_ Electra," the Pallas nodded. "It all makes sense now. As half-Caprican, she could also take on a Caprican identity. Clever. Very clever. But again, she's always been the greatest political manipulator of her generation. Always hiding in the background. Acting through her pawns. Never caught, not once."

"Father," Athena said quietly. Whom are you talking about? I never heard those names before and don't understand a word."

"That's because those names aren't meant for public use," her father answered. "As you know, the members of the other Great Houses generally use aliases in public. Antiochus is _Sire_ Anton, by the way. And Berenice is the woman whom we've falsely known as _Siress_ Blessie."

"That ridiculous old hag that couldn't stop flirting with poor Chameleon?" Athena asked in surprise.

"That 'ridiculous old hag' was a convenient role to disguise her true identity," her father pointed out. "Don't let her acting fool you, Theni. She's probably the most dangerous woman I've ever met. She's shrewd, ice cold, powerful and absolutely ruthless."

"But what could she possibly have wanted from an old fool like Chameleon?" Athena asked. "He was just a con man – granted, he totally lacked morale, but he was basically harmless. Unless, of course…" she drifted off, starting to see the possibilities.

"Unless he's found out something Berenice wanted to remain hidden," her father finished. "Or unless Berenice managed to find out a secret _Chameleon_ was hiding – like _his_ true identity, for example."

"Would you mind telling me who this Chameleon is?" the Pallas asked. "It seems to me that there are more hidden connections than we've thought."

Adama nodded and gave her a detailed summary of Chameleon's recent activities and sudden death on the senior ship, shortly before crossing the anomaly. The Pallas listened to him without interrupting his story, her smooth face darkening with concern.

"I believe I might indeed supply some more data," she then said. "I've never met this Chameleon, nor have I ever heard that name. But I do know that roughly thirty _yahrens_ ago there was quite a scandal in the patrician circles of Leonis… one that got hurriedly smoothed over. According to my sources, however – and you know they're _always_ reliable – _Siress_ Electra, the daughter of the Leonid councillor at that time, was briefly involved with a man of no rank and somewhat… unsavoury character. A Caprican con man named Proteus."

Adama and his daughter exchanged shocked looks. The connection was unmistakable. Proteus, the shape changing sea god… the chameleon, a creature that could change its colour to meld with its surroundings for disguise…

"Chameleon?" Athena asked uncertainly.

Her father nodded. "Must have been; the character description would fit, at the very least. But there was more, wasn't there?" he turned back to the Pallas, who nodded.

"Indeed, there is," she replied. "_Siress_ Electra was sent to Caprica, to the family of her uncle: the father of Berenice. And less than a _yahren_ later, one of the young female servants left the house to bury her dead child in her home village, Nataren."

"That's barely a hundred _kilometrons_ from the Thorn Forest of Umbra," Adama murmured. "Well, it _was_, anyway. Just on the other side of the Forest."

"Does this mean that Starbuck could be the bastard son of _Sire_ Uri's wife?" Athena was beyond shock now. "And that servant smuggled him out, instead of her dead baby, and was hiding him in Umbra?"

"It seems that way, doesn't it?" her father replied. "We _know_ that Chameleon was Starbuck's biological father. We also know that Starbuck had a Leonid parent, thank to the analysis of his conserved blood samples. Since Chameleon was one hundred per cent Caprican, it _had_ to be his mother. We know he used to live in Umbra with a woman whom we thought to be his mother, until the Cylons destroyed that little agrostation. And we know that Chameleon was supposedly looking for his son in Umbar. He also said that Starbuck's mother was blonde, and _Siress_ Blessie _is_ blonde, too. So was the wife of Uri, if I remember correctly."

"She was indeed. _Siress_ Electra was married off to Uri soon after the events I've just described you," the Pallas added. "Since they never had any children, her immense wealth went to her husband, after her death. But if there were any children, even illegitimate ones…"

"Then all her riches would go to those children, according to the matrilineal hereditary law of the Leonids," Adama finished for her. "Someone must have figured out Starbuck's true heritage and alerted Uri… or Berenice. That might be the reason behind Starbuck's mysterious disappearance."

He wasn't going to reveal the fact that Starbuck was, in fact, very much alive. Not yet. Not even to an old and reliable ally like the Pallas.

"But how?" Athena asked. "And why at that time and not before? Starbuck wasn't exactly hiding… he _loved_ to be the centre of the attention."

"Perhaps nobody knew what to look for earlier," the Pallas said. "The House of _Sire_ Raphael – Electra's father," she added for Athena's sake, "had a small but very characteristic mark on their lower back: a birthmark, shaped like a trefoil. It's located low enough to remain invisible, even if a pilot sits around in the barracks, shirtless. But the Triad gear is more revealing. An old servant of Raphael's House watching a Triad game would have been enough… assuming that Lieutenant Starbuck _did_ have such a mark."

She looked at Athena in askance, who blushed.

"He had one," she said, avoiding her father's eyes.

The Pallas nodded. "Well, in that case we have a motive. Uri's entire influence and power is based on his late wife's wealth. Without the money – that he'd managed to save in the form of precious metals and gemstones, while leaving his wife behind to die on Leonis – he'd be nothing. Antiochus and Berenice couldn't allow that to happen. They needed him. Oh, I don't doubt that they'll discard him in good time – he already knows too much. But right now, he's still a convenient pawn for Berenice; she _ad_ to remove Lieutenant Starbuck from the equation. Not to mention the fact that after Uri's 'unfortunate accident', which is only a matter of time to happen, she would get everything, being Electra's cousin."

"She can always provide medical proof for their relation," Adama agreed. "Well, that certainly explains _Starbuck's_ fate. But it still doesn't answer the question what Antiochus and his allies are up to."

"I believe they've been working on infiltrating the planetary governments from the beginning," the Pallas replied grimly. "They've certainly done good work with the Otori sect here – the sect had never had so many resources to their disposition before. I think it's their intention to sneak in their puppets everywhere, and then forge a sector-wide empire under patrician rule – their own."

"They've staked their claim shrewdly," Adama admitted. "They're everywhere. They have Areriana and Uri in the Cyrannus system to keep Caprica at bay, as they know that neither Telamon nor I would ever switch to their side. They've Antiochus himself in the Kryillian system; and Lobe, who's practically his pet daggit."

"And with due pressure, Tinia and Domra would crumble and submit," the Pallas added. "President Darius and I have the Hatari system well under control here, so they have little chance here. And the Otari system is of no particular interest for them at the moment, although they could fool Belloby easily. She's not very bright, as you know."

"Oh, yes, I know," Adama said ruefully. "But they'll never manage to win over Tigh."

"Which is the reason why you should be grateful that _Sire_ Tigh is safely away on that Federation starship," the Pallas said. "They wouldn't hesitate to have him terminated, so that Libra would get a more… cooperative councillor. But as long as he's alive and not accessible for them, they cannot do anything about Libra."

"What about Xaviar?" Adama asked. "Does he cause you any problems here?"

"Xaviar is a dark equine," the Pallas admitted. "A _sectare_ ago I'd have sworn that he was on their side. The idea of a strong, centralized empire would appeal to the Sagittarian military mindset, and he's said to have visited Scorpia not so long ago. But… I had a rather strange visit from Commander Croft, just last _secton_. I'm still not sure what exactly the purpose of his visit was, but I've got the feeling that Xaviar is trying to move away from his old allies and seeking out new alliances. He has to be subtle, of course. Antiochus wouldn't let him go. Not alive anyway."

"Do you believe they'd be able to harm Xaviar, Father?" Athena asked doubtfully. "No one is better guarded than the Warlord of Sagittara. Heliopolis is practically a fortress."

"They won't send armies against him openly," her father replied. "A fortress, if well built and well defended, can withstand armies. But a trained assassin can slip through every net and carry out his task despite the number of guards. Especially if he – or she – doesn't care for her own life, just for the task."

"And we both know that Aeriana could find such assassins among the zealot Submitters if she put her mind to it," the Pallas added. "Fanatics are always the most dangerous killers, as they are not concerned with their own survival."

"The same could be said for the Otori sect," Adama reminded her. The Pallas nodded.

"We know. We are being careful. The Labyrinth is shielded by priestesses with strong empathic power, aside from being trapped. Everyone who enters here is being scanned for their true intentions."

"Even old allies like me?" Adama smiled to take the edge of the question.

"Even our own people," the Pallas replied seriously. "No one is completely immune against human weakness. Everyone can fall, if the temptation is strong enough. In a way, this is worse than the Cylons were," she added with genuine sadness. "At least during the war we always knew who the enemy was."

"That is, sadly, quite true," Adama agreed. "But at least we know now who the major players are and have an idea about some of their motives."

"What about Viridian?" The Pallas added. Is he one of the players?"

"He's been approached," Adama replied slowly. "He pretended not to understand what the mediator wanted from him. But I'm not sure he's succeeded in fooling Antiochus."

"He might have," the Pallas said. "His House has been known for its ignorance for generations."

"Their ignorance has always been attitude, not lack of actual knowledge," Adama said. "You know that and I know that – which means that Antiochus is likely to know it, too. That man is many things but not a fool. And he has a much deeper knowledge about the intricate relations between the patrician Houses of Scorpia than anyone else."

"Then it's a fortunate coincidence that Viridian will come to New Sagittara shortly," the Pallas said. "He will be safe there, under Xaviar's protection."

"Coincidence?" Adama replied with a faint smile. "No, my dear, I do not believe in such coincidences. This either means that Antiochus trusts Xaviar completely and wants Viridian under his surveillance, or, what's more likely, he already questions Xaviar's loyalty and tries to use Viridian to bring him to fall."

"Might he succeed?" The Pallas asked with a frown.

Adama shrugged. "I cannot tell. He's subtle and patient. Fortunately, Viridian is shrewd enough. I hope he'll be able to avoid the pitfalls."

"You _hope_?" The Pallas emphasized the last word.

"I'm afraid there are no guarantees for anything," Adama replied with a weary sigh.

* * *

Like almost every morning in the last _yahren_, Darius – not _Sire_ Darius, councillor of New Aquarius, not President Darius, the head of the Twelve Colonies, just plain Darius, the young poet and ambitious politician – woke up with the solid weight of his lover pressed against his back and a possessive arm thrown across his waist. Slowly, as if not to wake his bedmate, he turned around under the pliant weight of that arm to admire the masculine beauty of the man who'd shared his bed – his very _life_ – for the last fourteen _sectares_. 

In his sleep, Leandros looked younger than awake; but also more remote, as if someone – or something – had snatched him away, out of Darius' reach. As if the enigma he truly was had only manifested itself when he was asleep.

Still, he was everything Darius had always dreamed of: slender yet strong, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a pale skin and smooth, even features. He was a few _yahrens_ older than Darius himself, but apparently very experienced… and he had incredible stamina. Aside from that, he was also intelligent, well educated and quick-witted (albeit with a definite cruel streak that sometimes made Darius uncomfortable), had a dry sense of humour and could bear inhumane workloads.

In other words, he was the perfect secretary and the perfect lover in one person. The best thing that could have happened to the overstressed young President who was still struggling with the demands of his office.

Of course, Darius never believed for a _micron_ that their chance encounter right after the elections had really been a coincidence. That would have been way too convenient to be true. In fact, he was sure that someone had deliberately set Leandros on him, carefully choosing a person who would please his senses as well as prove useful for his work.

Sometimes he even doubted that Leandros was truly _flit_ at all. He was sure that his lover secretly patronized _socialators_ to balance out his… _duties_ in the President's bed. But that didn't bother Darius too much. He still got much pleasure out of the bargain – and that on a daily basis – and Leandros dealt with the paperwork quickly and efficiently, without bothering the President with mundane details.

Well, the part of the paperwork that he _got_ to see anyway. For despite what the old politicians might think about him, Darius was not an idealistic young foul and was careful _not_ to allow his aide to become too influential or too well-informed. Leandros might believe otherwise, but he was still but a tool in Darius' hand, not the other way round.

Darius knew all too well that in the power struggle among the councillors – and influential patricians _behind_ the councillors – both sides considered him as nothing but a temporary pawn. He was willing to let them believe that they'd managed to fool him. That gave him the time and the chance to build his own alliances. It was a slow-paced game, but unlike most of the major players behind the scenes, he had time. He was young and could wait for his opportunity to strike.

_Sealing_ with Droxine had been but a move in that game. They had arranged themselves. Fortunately for him, Droxine had no problems with living with a _flit_ partner – on the contrary. Aside from siring her children, she had no demands for his presence in her bed. In fact, she seemed almost relieved to be left alone, with her art and music.

On the other hand, she was a valuable and sheer unlimited source of knowledge concerning Federation affairs – and willing to share. She also had excellent connections to a number of Federation words; dabbling in politics was something she seemed to enjoy, which was small wonder, considering her heritage. She could become a useful political ally – and perhaps even a friend, given enough time.

With a little regret, Darius slipped from his bed, silently wondering, as always, whether Leandros was truly asleep or just faking it. As inspiring it was to stay a step ahead of his quick-witted lover, sometimes he wished he could really trust the man. But that would have been suicidal, and he knew that. Aside from the pleasures they shared in bed, Leandros was his insurance that whoever had sent him to the President only got the information Darius allowed him to get.

Pillow talk could be a dangerous pitfall if one wasn't careful. But it could also be a very effective weapon if used correctly. As a born artist, Darius had made it to a true artform during the recent _sectares_.

With a last, rueful glance at Leandros' handsome, strangely distant face, Darius vanished in the bathroom. It was time for a shower, then for his morning run in the garden. And then, before the affairs of the state caught up with him, he would have breakfast with his wife – an excellent opportunity to discuss with her said affairs. They needed to coordinate the relations between Ardana and the New Colonies. That was one thing over which the President intended to keep control himself.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14: Pandora's Box

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

There are some spoilers for the episodes "The Man With Nine Lives" and "Take the Celestra", although I very much doubt that anyone fond of the original BSG still can be surprised by anything.

Like President Darius, _Sire_ Gamesh is a character whom I've mistaken for book canon during my Internet research. I stay corrected in hindsight. So, they both belong to Adam C. Stacey, and so does the Libran Revolt. However, both the charcters and the event are quite different within my settings. Only the names are the same.

And yes, Ambassador T'Pring _is_ Spock's intended mate from "Amok Time". Most people don't like her, for playing such a cruel game with Kirk and Spock, but I've always adored her. She was a woman who made her own choices and wasn't afraid to confront tradition to get what she wanted. I thought that would make her an excellent politician. g

**

* * *

Chapter 14 – Pandora's Box**

Omega was glad that the official enrolment of Aggie into the Federation school gave him the excuse he needed to visit Semiramis again. He _hated_ being cut off the direct source of information, but he wouldn't dare to discuss anything connected to Starbuck through the comm, not even through the assumedly secure diplomatic channels. He simply didn't know whom of the new crewmembers he could trust and chose to play safe. Besides, he'd promised to tell Hunter the whole tale, as soon as he'd managed to complete the puzzle.

Granted, the puzzle wasn't exactly complete yet. Quite a few minor details – or one should say minor players – were still missing. And they didn't have any hard proof, either. But with the additional information Adama had gained from the Pallas of New Gemini, many seemingly unconnected pieces suddenly clicked into place, and Omega began to see the big picture. Which was only natural for someone with his family background.

Omega was, by his very nature, a political animal. It would have been hard to be anything else for a son of the House of Lares, even though he hadn't originally been the heir apparent. But all members of his House had been trained for political skills, even I they – like Omega himself – chose to pursue a different career. And now he was the head of his House.

That meant, before anything else, responsibility. Responsibility for the House – even if Aurora was the only other member by blood at the moment –, for their world, for the New Colonies. Omega, or, as he was officially recorded in the annals of his House, Orpheus, didn't intend to dodge his responsibilities. Not even if facing them meant to work against the most powerful old patricians of the Old Colonies.

Aurora had brought the other children to witness Aggie's big day, and they were off to one of the rejuvenation centres with Aurora's ex-boyfriend, Damon, who had come directly from New Aquarius. Damon was an Aquarian by birth and the two of them had been together while serving aboard the _Celestra_. Damon, too, had participated in the mutiny but was pardoned for turning against Charka and his cronies in the last _micron_. That fact, sadly, hadn't saved his relationship with Aurora, damaged by the brief reappearance of Starbuck in her life, but at least they had been able to save their friendship, and they still saw each other regularly.

_Perhaps the whole thing is still salvageable_, thought Omega. For his part, he sincerely hoped so. Aurora had been a great help with the children (not to mention his only blood relative), but she deserved to have a life of her own. Preferable one not burdened with past loves, but if it had to be one of her exes, she was a lot better off with Damon than she would ever be with Starbuck. Even if one considered the old, bright, golden Starbuck, the scavenging pilot with a ladylove on each ship of the Fleet. An _ex_-ladylove, Omega corrected himself. Starbuck had been a serial monogamist, always faithful to his latest love interest, no matter how short the affair lasted.

As for this new, broken, amnesiac Starbuck, Omega couldn't ever begin to guess how much damage had truly been done to him and how much of his old, bright, resilient personality could still be found. So, it was better for Aurora _not_ to know about him. It would hurt her very much to see him in his current state – and there would be no gain, for either of them.

He consulted his electronic notepad – a Starfleet-issue device, with all the safety protocols that were available for the highest-ranking officers only. He'd received it from Commodore Hunter who wanted him to have a storage device that couldn't be hacked by Colonial technicians. The message he'd got during the shuttle flight (but didn't want to check it in the presence of the children) said that he was expected on the Vulcan Embassy.

That surprised him a little, as he'd never had any contact with the Vulcan ambassador assigned to Semiramis before, even though he knew that she'd visited several of the colonies to see what kind of help her government could provide with the rebuilding of their worlds. But he supposed that the Vulcan Embassy would be the place best secured against any listening devices on the entire Starbase. Vulcans were reliable and thorough, and they were one of the technologically highest developed races of the Federation.

He caught the station shuttle at the nearest stop and travelled to Corridor C – an extremity of the Starbase that led to Spacedock C, a more or less independent suburb of Semiramis, inhabited by Vulcans only. This structure – like the other four that were attached to the central body of the base – was a miniature version of the huge spacedocks, with a population of about five thousand, and it housed the Vulcan Embassy, the local research lab of the Vulcan Institute of Comparative Genetics, the local observatory of the Vulcan Institute of Stellar Cartography, the representative offices of several Vulcan trade and mining corporations, a small theatre and exhibition room ran by the Vulcan Institute for Cultural Exchange, a school for higher mathematics for specifically talented children (Vulcans and non-Vulcans alike), and a dozen other facilities the names (or function) of which he couldn't even hope to remember or understand. To put it simple, this was a small cross-section of Vulcan society, more than capable of dealing with every aspect of alien cultures the ambassador might encounter on this remote outpost.

At the checkpoint in Corridor C he was welcomed by a young diplomatic attaché in the simple yet elegant black-and-gold uniform of the Embassy and led to the conference room of Ambassador T'Pring. The Ambassador was surprisingly short for a Vulcan, but slim and trim and supremely elegant, not to mention exotically beautiful in the cold and detached way of her people. She wore the dark, flowing official robes of an ambassador, with the customary high, gold-embroidered collar. Her jet-black hair was braided with white pearl strings and piled high atop her head. The unusually large, jewelled dark eyes made her smooth face look almost triangular; her featured were noble and chiselled, with high cheekbones and arched eyebrows so fine and dark as if they had been painted by an ancient Chinese artist on silk.

She greeted Omega with the customary, cold Vulcan politeness and asked him to take his place at the conference table. There were quite a few others already, mostly high-ranking officials from the Colonies, but also some from Starfleet. Omega spotted Commodore Hunter and _Siress_ Athena at once, who were sitting with _Sire_ Solon, the Chief Opposer of the Colonies, and also Jolly and Starbuck, who'd found a somewhat remote place at the end of the long table and didn't look very comfortable… to put it mildly. He recognized the male Vulcan sitting next to them as Dr. Sekhet, the geneticist, who'd made the mapping of Starbuck's genetic sequence, and also Jewel, the Minaran empath who still worked on Starbuck's therapy. There was also a female Vulcan whom he saw for the first time, and whose name was apparently T'Mir.

There was one other person in the conference room whom Omega had known for a very long time: _Sire_ Ixion, the Gemoni councillor. One of the few _Quorum_ members whom both he and Adama still trusted. Ixion was one of the extremely rare, single-born Gemoni males who had refused to join the Otori-sect and was, as a result, considered a traitor by them… not exactly a safe situation in these days. Especially as he gave an excellent target for any potential assassins, being half a head taller than the average Gemon, easily recognizable by his thick, wavy white mane – not to mention the flowing white robe of a councillor that he always wore.

Omega understood the reason for Ixion's presence. _Siress_ Parthenope, the current Pallas, could not leave New Gemini – that would have been against custom and thus drawn unwanted attention. There had been some debate between her and Adama whether Ixion should be fully informed, Omega knew that. Starbuck's safety demanded that as few people knew about his true identity as possible. Besides, his fate was just a small detail in the big picture, interesting mostly for his personal friends who'd missed him terribly.

But they needed at least _some_ allies within the _Quorum_ if they wanted to prevent Antiochus's scheme from succeeding. Neither Omega, nor Athena were _Quorum_ members, Tigh was out of reach, and President Darius was still too young, too new, and altogether a dark equine. Omega didn't doubt that Adama would eventually inform _Sire_ Telamon, the Caprican councillor, at least about the aspects of the conspiracy – a conspiracy the exact extent of which Omega still couldn't see himself – but that could wait. It was more urgent at the moment that _Sire_ Solon was informed, as he practically incorporated Colonial law… and that a decision about Starbuck's further fate was made, now that he had regained most of his memories.

As the host of the meeting, it was Ambassador T'Pring's prerogative to open it – which she did, as soon as the introductions were finished. She did it with the wonderfully uncomplicated bluntness only Vulcans could pull off without being rude.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen," she said in a surprisingly deep, cool voice and nearly without any accent. "As you all know, this meeting has been called to share information about a conspiracy within the New Colonies; a conspiracy in which, unfortunately, certain Federation members also seem to be involved."

"How many?" Hunter asked quietly. T'Pring glanced at Athena, allowing her to give the answer she was better suited to deliver.

"We're not certain," Athena replied. "Ardana, in any case; they're not even overly secretive about it – it would be pointless, since President Darius has Sealed with _Siress _Droxine. But Aquarius isn't the only world to use Ardanan workers. Scorpia, Sagittara and Leonis are heavily involved, too."

"Ardana has been shipping out Troglyte workers to a great number of remote colonies on other parts of the Federation as well," T'Pring added. "While I generally appreciate the end of their barbaric caste system, it cannot be denied that Captain Kirk's interference has caused a serious upheaval in their society that can cause severe problems in the not too far future. Yet Ardana isn't the only Federation world involved in the rebuilding of the Colonies. Are there any signs that other Federation members would cooperate with these conspirators?"

"We have no proof of any governments being officially involved," Athena said. "But there's a founded suspicion that at least some circles from Alpha III might be interested. It's hard to tell, really. Those are private companies that do similar work on many Federation worlds, and they might be doing just that – or they might be doing more. Further observation will be necessary to make a reliable estimate."

"We don't have the resources to do so," Solon reminded her worriedly. Athena nodded.

"I know, _Sire_ Solon," she said. "It's not exactly our task, either. Which is the reason why I've established contact with Starfleet Intelligence."

That piece of news shocked the Colonial officials quite a bit, but both T'Pring and Hunter nodded in agreement.

"That was the best thing you could do," the Commodore said. "Starfleet Intelligence has the means and the right people to clear up this tangle – and Commodore Drake Reed is a guarantee that no innocents would be charged. It's more than enough for you to deal with your own traitors."

_Traitor_ might sound a little harsh, but Commodore Hunter was not one to mince her words.

"Speaking of which," Omega said, "do we know how many _Quorum_ members and other noblemen are part of this conspiracy? I know about _Sire_ Anton, of course, and Uri is certainly wading in the whole morass up to his armpits. _Sire_ Ariana is most likely involved, too – who else?"

"Xaviar, perhaps," Athena replied, "although Father says he might be already drifting away from them. Domra and Lobe, while Anton's lap daggits, are just pawns. They might not even be fully aware of what's going on behind the scenes. Tinia is clueless, I presume; and Belloby can be very easily manipulated. She would serve Anton's purposes without even realizing it when handled the right way."

"What about Telamon?" _Sire_ Ixion asked.

"He couldn't leave New Caprica at such a short notice," Athena told him, "but Father will inform him personally. He's in our camp."

"Which seems to be woefully small at the moment," Solon commented wryly. "Considering that I don't even have a vote in the _Quorum_ and Tigh has left with the _Enterprise_, we'd be outvoted in a _micron_ if we tried to apply for an investigation."

"We can't make our suspicions public just yet," Athena agreed. "We're still in the phase where we need to gather information… much more information, and preferably hard proof that we can present to a proper Tribunal one day. We have to be very careful, though. These people are vile and ruthless."

"In that case," _Sire_ Ixion said, "I fail to understand what these young warriors are doing here. No offence intended," he glanced at Jolly apologetically, "but this isn't really your league."

"Believe me, _Sire_ Ixion, I'd be the happiest if I were _not_ involved in any manner," the fat pilot replied with emphasis. "I haven't asked for this – it was just sheer bad luck."

"Thanks, buddy," Starbuck commented sarcastically. That drew _Sire_ Ixion's attention to him.

"Do I know you, Lieutenant?" the Gemoni councilman asked uncertainly.

"If you can't remember, it's better we pretend that you don't… for both of us," Starbuck answered. "Let's just say that I'm someone who had the chance to gain a great deal of insight into the plans of these oh-so-elated people. Not necessarily on a voluntary basis."

"What Lieutenant Demos means," Hunter interrupted, "is that he was secretly captured by _Sire_ Anton's people, imprisoned on your Prison Barge under a false name, repeatedly tortured, exposed to an illegal device not unlike the Klingon mind-sifter, with the intention of laying open all his memories – and then destroy them."

"And a damn good job they've done with it," Starbuck added, his eyes darkening with remembered pain. "When I escaped the Prison Barge, I couldn't remember _anything_ beyond the age of six… more or less. I'm still not certain about the exact date."

"Despite the impressive headway Lieutenant Demos has already made, there are still gaps in his memory," T'Mir, the Vulcan therapist, added. "He has a long way to go yet… but the results are promising. There is a ninety-four per cent chance that he will regain his full memory one day."

"How did you manage to escape from the Prison Barge in the first place?" Omega asked. "You were found here, somewhere on the lover levels of the Starbase, I'm told."

"That's one of those little details we still haven't cleared yet," Starbuck replied glumly, glancing at the Minaran empath. "Jewel means that the closer a memory is to my… unpleasant experiences on the Prison Barge, the later we can expect it to resurface. Not that I'd be so eager to remember everything," he added, shuddering.

"But what did they want from you in the first place?" Omega asked. "And by the way, is it true that you are from a noble Leonid House from your mother's side? That you're the son of _Siress_ Electra? "

Starbuck nodded. "According to Dr. Sekhet here, I must be. It's strange, though. All my life I wanted nothing more than to know who my parents were. And now it seems that I might have known them – both of them. But my fracking father ran away like a scalded felix when he learned that I was indeed his son – and that with the help of my then-girlfriend, no less. As for my mother… she probably didn't even know who I was."

"Perhaps she did," Omega said thoughtfully. He remembered _Siress_ Electra – generally known as _Siress_ Uri, after her worthless husband – as a plump, gentle woman, whose main effort in life had been to discover ways to rescue said worthless husband from potentially dangerous situation he'd got himself into due to his insatiable hunger for power and wealth. In the rare occasions when she had any contact with the warriors, she'd always been very kind to Starbuck. Not outstandingly so, not obviously enough to raise any suspicions, but in hindsight… yes, she definitely must have had an interest.

"I think she might have known," Omega said. "But it was probably for your safety's sake that she kept your true origins secret."

"Well, considering what's happened to me, I can't really blame her," Starbuck said slowly. "I wonder how Uri and his cronies had found me after all those _yahrens_, though. Was it Chameleon's fault?"

"No, it was probably just bad luck," Athena replied. "You've got a birthmark shaped like a trefoil, don't you?"

"Sure," Starbuck shrugged. "A lot of people do."

"Actually… no, they don't," Athena said. "According to _Siress_ Parthenope who used to know your mother well, this specific birthmark could only be found in _Siress_ Electra's family. That's a fact known to all family members."

"So I still have relatives?" Starbuck tried to clarify. "Who's this _Siress_ Electra anyway? I mean aside from being my mother, obviously. I've never heard that name before."

"That's because she hasn't used it publicly for almost as long as you've been alive," Omega explained. "It was a peculiar custom in her family that daughters of the House used their husbands' names in public after getting Sealed."

"And who _is_ she then?" Starbuck asked impatiently. "Everyone is being so fracking mysterious about her. Dr. Sekhet only told me that Salik had found my recessive Leonid gene and that was how they've figured out the family relation…"

Omega and Athena exchanged uncomfortable looks. They wished Apollo were here – he could always calm down Starbuck better than anyone else. But Apollo was _not_ there, so they had to do the deed themselves.

"Well, there's no easy way to tell you, Bucko," Omega finally said, deciding that he was the man and the warrior and so he had to bite the bullet… figuratively speaking. "The ugly truth is – your mother was married to _Sire_ Uri."

"_Uri_?" Starbuck repeated, unbelievingly; then a half-forgotten piece of information resurfaced from the dark recesses of his memory, and he clenched his fist. "And that twice-damned bastard let her behind on Caprica to die, didn't he?"

"He did," Omega nodded, "although he _had_ managed to save her considerable wealth, in the form of gold, jewels and gemstones. And he'd have hated it very much to give you all those riches back."

"_Me_?" Starbuck shook his head. "What have I do with her money? Uri was her lawfully Sealed husband; the heir apparent, even if he let her die deliberately."

"Not exactly," Solon corrected. "Your mother was a Leonid noblewoman; on Leonis, inheritance goes down the maternal line, especially in the old Houses. You are her natural son – _you'd_ have been the heir apparent, no matter the circumstances of your conception."

"Who cares for her fracking money?" Starbuck fought back angry tears. "I've only seen her a couple of times, but she was _kind_ to me – and that daggit left her behind to _die_! I should…"

"You should sit down and hold back, Lieutenant," Hunter snapped, her voice sharp like a whiplash. "We've gone through great pains to keep you alive and safe. You won't ruin all that effort by going on a vengeance trip and getting yourself killed. Am I making myself clear?"

Starbuck snapped to attention. One didn't argue with Commodore Hunter, the legend of the Border Guard. Especially not when one served under her command.

"Aye-aye, Ma'am," he replied crisply; then, not just a little bitterly, he added. "So, this means Uri will get away with letting my mother die, just like with everything else?"

"Oh, no," Solon said coldly. "Believe me, Lieutenant, this time he'll _not_ get away with anything. It might take us _yahrens_ to find all the proof we need, but there _will_ be justice. I promise you, by the honour of my House and that of my office as the Chief Opposer of the Colonies."

Starbuck nodded, his eyes hard like blue ice. "I'll call you on that promise, _Sire_ Solon. Remember, you owe me one for that time you put me in jail innocently."

_Sire_ Ixion raised an elegant eyebrow at that but said nothing. He'd already had his suspicions about the true identity of this "Lieutenant Demos", and now he saw them confirmed. But he also knew hat it was really better if he didn't have official knowledge. Safer for them both.

"I still don't understand, though," Starbuck was saying in the meantime. "I've got memories from my childhood – finally got them back – and there _is_ a woman who was with me all those _yahrens_. I used to call her Isme; but she was nothing like _Siress_ Uri. I mean, not what _Siress_ Uri might have been like in her youth, not as if I've ever seen a picture of her. At least I can't remember… but this… this Isme was a very different type of woman, I think."

"She was your nursemaid, actually," Athena replied. "As far as we were able to put the entire story together, her name was Ismene. She used to be a trusted female attendant of your mother, and she had a baby at about the same time. Only that her son was born dead. For your own safety, your mother must have switched you with the dead baby and sent you with Ismene back to Umbra, from where she hailed from. The family would never have accepted you – your grandfather was the Leonid councillor back then, and the whole clan was quite picky about whom they mixed their ancient blood with."

"And Chameleon was really my father?" Starbuck asked, because he felt he couldn't be sure about anything anymore. Too many unexpected discoveries could do that to a person.

"Actually, his name was Proteus," Athena corrected. "A Caprican con man of common birth, questionable character and considerable charm – that sound familiar for you?"

"I think so," Starbuck replied with a joyless grin. "He was a selfish, irresponsible old _daggit_ if I ever saw one… still, he didn't deserve to get terminated. I assume he was too nosy for his own good again. Found out something he was _not_ supposed to know."

"That is _one_ possibility," _Sire_ Solon agreed. "But it's also quite possible that _Sire_ Anton and his allies had him terminated simply because he was your biological father. According to Leonid hereditary law, he'd have inherited _Siress_ Electra's riches, had you died before him."

Starbuck shook his head. "Impossible. Nobody knew that Chameleon… Proteus… whatever… was my father. Hades, not even I knew!"

"That is not quite correct," T'Pring interfered for the first time. "If I understand correctly what I was told, _at least_ four people have known about your relation to that man, Lieutenant. Firstly, the man himself. Secondly, the med-tech who made the tests. And, if I am not mistaken, Commander Apollo and Captain Sheba, whom the med-tech told the truth, right after the results f the gene tests had come up. Am I correct in my interpretation?"

Athena nodded. "Absolutely correct, Ambassador. I've been also informed, although only after Chameleon's death."

"So, that means four people who knew the truth for at least a year before the Lieutenant disappeared," T'Pring summarized. "Logic dictates that one or more of these people must have talked. The only remaining question is: which one? You should find that out as soon as possible. For if they had talked to the wrong person once, they might do so again – which could be potentially dangerous. Especially if they are privy to other sensitive information as well."

"I think we can route Apollo out," Omega said. "He's been Star… Lieutenant Demos' best friend since he Flight Academy; _and_ he's a man of honour and responsibility. No; he'd never do anything to harm the lieutenant, neither consciously nor by mistake."

"I agree," Solon said. "It's a completely ridiculous idea. And I don't believe it was Cassiopeia, either. She was in love with the lieutenant. She would never harm him, either."

"I won't be quite so certain about her," Athena said coolly. "Granted, I'm perhaps not the most objective person when it comes to judge her character, but I'd bet she's not half as innocent and naïve as she does."

"She might be many things, none of which are innocent or naïve," Omega seconded dryly. "She's a high-class _socialator_ – due to her degrees and experience, she might yet raise in the ranks of the _Labyrinth_ as high as the personal aide of the _Hecate_ herself. She's shrewd and determined… and very well capable of defending her own interests."

"Not to mention the fact that she has already told sensitive information other people," T'Pring reminded. Starbuck rolled his eyes.

"She told _Apollo_, because she needed to share it with someone who had been my friend for a long time," he said. "Sheba just happened to be there."

"Yes," Athena said slowly, thoughtfully. "Sheba just happened to be there."

"And right now she happens to live on New Scorpia, serving as the leader of Planetary Defences," Omega added, exchanging a look of troubled understanding with her. "In _Sire_ Anton's unquestioned area of influence. Interesting…"

"On New Scorpia," _Sire_ Solon repeated. You assume that Sheba was the leak, then?"

"I wouldn't entirely delete Cassiopeia from the list of potential suspects," Athena said. "The lieutenant had broken up with her shortly before his disappearance."

"Really?" Solon asked. "What was the reason, Lieutenant? Have you found out that she was keeping secrets from you?"

Starbuck shook his head. "No. There were several things… her throwing herself at Cain in the _micron_ the old madman reappeared was one of them. Her believing that I was capable of terminating a man over a Triad game was another. And was not comfortable with the way she'd become best buddies with Sheba of all people, out of the blue, after having hated each other for _yahrens_. I… I just couldn't trust her anymore, so I thought ending the whole affair would be the right thing to do."

"Took you long enough to realize," Athena commented acidly, "but letter late than never, I guess. She was _not_ happy about it, in any case."

"Of course not," Omega nodded. "Your break-up cost her what little social status she had aboard the _Galactica_. All of a sudden, she wasn't the significant other of a star pilot anymore, wasn't invited to the Commander's family dinners. She wasn't even the ex-_socialator_-who-got-accepted-by-Adama's-family any longer. Just an insignificant little med tech nobody cared for without her former contacts."

"She would have led a life way below her expectations, had we not ended up here," Athena added. "She had great luck to find kindred spirits in the Deltans. She's learned from them a lot, and now she can hope to get a high place in the hierarchy of the _Labyrinth_, once life returns to its normal path. But that doesn't mean that she was _not_ mad at the lieutenant back then."

"It is entirely possible that she started to look out for new, powerful protectors," Omega said. "And everybody came through Life Station one time or another. Everyone important enough to be treated there, that is."

"Perhaps," Starbuck allowed reluctantly. "What about Sheba, though? I find her a more likely subject."

"I don't know," Solon said. "She might have the chance – but what about her motivation?"

"The same as Cassie's," Starbuck replied with a shrug. "She had to realize that Apollo would never Seal with her. Her hothead of a father was gone, she had no status without Adama's patronage… plus, nobody really liked her, not even the rest of the ex-_Pegasus_ crew. It's entirely possible that she wanted to buy new privileges for herself by selling information. She'd surely picked up a lot around Apollo's family. And she's always hated me… not that it wasn't mutual," he added with a wry grin."

"It's strange to accept that the whole thing was just about money," Athena said thoughtfully. "When we first realized who you were, Omega and I, we suspected that they wanted to use you to create fake proof against Tigh, concerning the Libran Revolt."

Starbuck stiffened in his seat. Those harmless words apparently triggered some buried memory deep inside him. In a _micron_, he was back in his dark prison cell, hurting in more places he'd formerly believed was possible for a human being, the blinding pain of the mind-searching device driving him to howling madness step by step. And that merciless voice kept asking the same question, again and again and again…

"N-not Tigh…" he muttered. "Gamesh… they were looking for Gamesh!"

"_What_?" Solon rose from his seat involuntarily. "But Gamesh is dead!"

"Apparently not so dead as everyone had though," Omega commented dryly, "but again, we've made the same mistake with Berenice, haven't we? She'd lived right before our noses on the Senior Ship all the time – and we never realized. Not even Adama had recognized her. So it's not entirely impossible that Gamesh might have been hiding somewhere during the last _yahrens_."

"But why would Anton and the others want to find him?" Athena asked. "Even if he's still alive, his personal little riot has failed – he's no longer a threat for anyone."

"Unless some – or all of them – were, in fact, involved in the Libran Revolt and were unwilling to let that fact become public," Omega said slowly.

"That _is_ a possibility" _Sire_ Ixion agreed, "and the ramifications are… unsettling, to say the least."

"It would help me to understand the situation if I knew what the Libran Revolt was," T'Pring interfered calmly.

_Sire_ Ixion opened his mouth to say something, but Solon raised his hand.

"_I would_ like to answer that question, _Sire_ Ixion, if you don't mind," he said. "I'm a Libran myself, after all; and Gamesh was a personal friend of mine."

He closed his eyes for a moment to order his thoughts. Then he began to speak in a calm, even voice.

"_Sire_ Gamesh was the only surviving son of _Sire_ Ikimi, the head of one of the Libran tribes and a member of the Libran Planetary Council. He served with Colonel Tigh aboard the _Bellerophon,_ but he gave up his military career early on and went into politics. He thought _Sire_ Togo, the councillor of Libra too weak to represent the interests of our colony properly, so he looked out for more powerful allies and became Uri's right hand. He had good chances to take over the Libran seat in the _Quorum_ from Togo – in fact, Togo himself supported him. But when the Destruction came, Gamesh gave up all his personal ambitions in order to build up the hope and confidence of our people again – and being an exceedingly charismatic leader, he even succeeded… well, more or less."

"Libra fared a lot worse than most of the other colonies," Omega explained to Hunter. "Only some nine thousand of them survived to begin with, and their ships were little more than flying rustbins. It's a miracle, really, that they made it at all."

"A miracle _and_ a result of Gamesh's devotion," Solon said. "When he felt that our people would do reasonably well without him, he returned to politics. He tried to join Uri again, but they parted in open hostility when he realized that Uri was only interested in conserving his own wealth and power. He became _Sire_ Togo's aide once again, and tried to get special treatment for our people from the _Quorum_. Since we've suffered more than all the others, he believed that we deserved more help as well. There were spectacular fights in Council; fights that Gamesh usually lost against Adama, who had to see to the interests of the entire fleet. In the end, Gamesh made a radical step, out sheer frustration. In Adama's absence, he orchestrated a riot, took the entire _Quorum_ hostage, and forced them to make him the new supreme leader of the fleet, equipped with emergency powers. And that was, basically, the Libran Revolt."

"And the outcome?" Hunter asked.

"Well, it lasted about a _sectare_ altogether," Solon replied. "But in that short time, Gamesh did a lot for the people starving and suffering on our ships – most likely ensured their survival. After Adama's return, though, it quickly became clear that he couldn't keep his position in the long run. In order to prevent bloodshed he resigned… and vanished, together with his closest followers. They were considered dead. The shuttle they fled with exploded before the eyes of the pursuing Vipers."

"Could the accident have been faked?" T'Pring asked. "Such things are known to happen from time to time."

Solon shrugged and looked at Omega for help. "This is more your field than mine, Colonel."

"I suppose it _is_ possible," Omega replied thoughtfully, "if someone is desperate enough. And no one can tell who else might have survived, hiding deep in the underbellies of some of the civilian ships. Theoretically, _Sire_ Gamesh _could_ be still alive… and Anton, Uri and the others would probably want to change that fact very much."

"But what made them believe the lieutenant could tell them anything about it?" _Sire_ Ixion asked in slight bewilderment.

"Because I was the leader of the Viper squadron that was chasing the Libran shuttle, after _Sire_ Gamesh and his people had fled the _Rising Star_," Starbuck realized. "They probably believed that I've helped them escape somehow."

"Have you?" T'Pring asked matter-of-factly. Starbuck glared at her as if he suspected she'd suddenly lost her mind.

"Hades, no!" he exclaimed. "I'd rather polish a Cylon's _astrum_ than help a madman… no offence, _Sire_ Solon," he added hurriedly.

"None taken," the Chief Opposer replied. "Many people considered Gamesh a madman, a political adventurer – I happen to disagree. He was a bit overzealous, true, but _Sire_ Ikimi is right. Without the Libran Revolt, not a third of our people would have survived."

"One person's villain is another person's hero," Hunter said philosophically. "In any case, I don't believe that the lieutenant was captured to figure out _Sire_ Gamesh's fate. Every other pilot from the squadron would have done. They most likely took him because someone had recognized his special birthmark. And since he was in their hands anyway, they used the chance to find out whether he knew anything about Gamesh."

"That still does not explain why were they so eager to find a supposedly dead man," Dr. Sekhet said thoughtfully.

"It does, if they had a well-founded suspicion that the man isn't quite dead," _Sire_ Ixion replied. "And if they had a reason to fear his potential reappearance. Am I right to assume that New Libra would welcome him with open arms?" he looked at Solon who nodded.

"I'd say that by the next election he even might get back into the seat of the Libran councillor," he said.

"That might work as a theory," T'Pring said. "But if we want to see clear in this case, we need proof. And logic indicates that the only way to find proof would be to find the man himself. Assumed that he _is_ still alive, of course."

"He must have known things about Uri and his allies that could get them a tribunal," Omega added thoughtfully. "After all, he'd worked with Uri for many _yahrens_. So, if we find him, we might find the exact thing we need to get rid of _them_."

"That won't be easy," Hunter warned. "The man had managed to remain unnoticed in such a small, closed society as your fleet had been until recently. Now that the refugees have scattered over the entire sector, he has even more chances to stay hidden."

"Most of our people still live on Earth," Solon said, "since the terraforming of New Libra hasn't been finished yet. There, we'd have no chance. But those who work on the project, live on one of those godawful Cylon basestars; we can try some careful investigation there."

"Careful?" _Sire_ Ixion repeated in surprise. "Why should we be careful?"

"Because no Libran would even betray him," Solon replied. "Not even myself, were I not the Chief Opposer. As the commodore said: one person's villain is other person's legendary hero. And because Anton and his allies would have him terminated in a _micron_ should they find him first."

"Do we have a chance to find him at all, under these circumstances?" _Sire_ Ixion asked doubtfully. Solon thought about that for a moment.

"To be honest… no, I don't think so," he finally asked. "Which is a shame, because we need his testimony if we want to nail Anton and his puppets to the wall… if ever."

"I can't blame the man," Omega commented dryly. "Theoretically, he's still wanted by the law. He's never been pardoned."

"Well, we didn't really have an excuse to pardon him, did we?" Solon pointed out. "_If_ he would help us to unmask this conspiracy, however…"

"And he's supposed to know _that_ – how exactly?" Omega asked. "You can't let the message sicker through the usual channels. Anton and his _handlangers_," he used the Tauron expression that was a not very polite term, to put it mildly, "are certainly watching those channels, too."

"There _are_ ways," Solon replied. "I must not get involved myself, as it would be my duty to have him arrested, and Colonial law does not accept the testimony of convicts. Not to mention that the codes governing Tribunal for capital offences are entirely different from the norm, as part of the concessions that were made for having the death penalty suspended from Colonial jurisprudence. Tribunal must take place no later than forty-eight _centars_ from the official declaration of charges, with all available evidence presented. Failure to produce exculpatory evidence by the time Tribunal is convened can lead to the failure of the entire process, which can't be repeated at a later time."

"That," T'Pring declared calmly (she had been the only outsider capable of sorting the Chief Opposer's words into some understandable order), "is highly illogical."

"Many of our laws are," Solon admitted. "They're based on the traditions of a society that hadn't changed for a thousand _yahrens_, as stability was needed to fight the Cylons with united strength. I don't doubt that we'll need to change quite a few of these laws, but I very much doubt that we'd even begin before the great work of rebuilding is done."

"Unfortunately, that's true," _Sire_ Ixion agreed. "We need to find a way to lure Gamesh out of his hiding place – and we need to find a way to keep him safe until Tribunal. After that, pardoning him as a reward can be considered."

"My father, who's currently the nominal head of our Planetary Council, can make some careful moves," Solon said, "but I don't believe that Gamesh would trust him."

"So we do nothing?" Athena was very obviously displeased with the idea.

"Not quite," Solon answered. "As I said, there are ways. Or, more accurately, there is a _person_ whom Gamesh would trust enough to approach him. Unfortunately, that person is out of reach at the moment."

_Sire_ Ixion frowned for a moment, then he nodded in understanding. "Of course. Colonel Tigh."

"Exactly," Solon said. "But we can't speak to him directly right now, and I won't risk to contact him via subspace communication. Especially if you say that Cassiopeia can't be trusted without doubt. She's his diplomatic attaché and has access to the secure channels… and to his official mail."

"What about calling Tigh back for some nebulous reason?" Omega asked.

Solon shook his head. "It's too early. He's just left – it would raise suspicions. Besides, we still need to do a great deal of work before we can strike. It will take _yahrens_ to find all the people involved. Looping off the head of this… organization wouldn't be enough, not even close. We need to catch the mediators and the hirelings, too, or else we'll be facing the same problem a decade later. I suggest that we leave Adama in charge of this delicate affair. I assume we all agree that he is the right person to hold all strings in his hand, don't we?"

Everyone nodded. Adama's integrity was beyond any doubt. Hunter looked at T'Pring.

"What's your position in this, Ambassador?" she asked.

"I believe _Sire_ Solon's suggestion has its merits," the Vulcan said thoughtfully. "We shall need time, too, to lay open all possible Federation involvement in this unfortunate affair. I shall consult Commodore Drake Reed from Starfleet Intelligence and keep in touch with _Siress_ Athena. That should suffice for the time being. When we know more, we can consider the next steps."

"What about Lieutenant Demos, though?" Hunter asked. "Won't it be dangerous for him to stay here? I'd hate to lose a pilot like him, but Starbase 7 is on the doorstep of the New Colonies. Won't he be recognized again – and perhaps by the wrong person?"

"Could you get him reassigned to a different outpost?" Omega asked.

"_He_ is right here," Starbuck interrupted angrily, "and he is _not_ going anywhere. No," he put out his chin stubbornly, seeing that Omega wanted to say something, "leave it, Colonel. It's no use. I won't go anywhere. Not now when I've finally learned who I am – more deeply than I even knew. I might serve in your Border Patrol now, Commodore, but I'm still a Colonial warrior – and I hope to put on my old uniform again, once this mess is cleared out for good."

At first Athena wanted to argue with him but seeing that steely glance in his eyes she decided against it. There were times when no amount of arguing would make Starbuck change his mind. This seemed one of those times.

"As you wish," she said with a frustrated little sigh. "When _that_ day comes, though, Father wants you to remember that you're still family. You'll always have a place in our home, no matter what."

"Thank you, Theni," Starbuck murmured, clearly touched. His eyes were warm and gentle now, and for the first time since he'd recognized the pilot, Omega could see the old Starbuck; the one he'd feared would be lost forever.

Having reached temporary consensus about the issue, T'Pring declared the meeting closed. They had not been able to decide any actual move that could have been done, and there were still lots of questions open, but at least they had a beginning. From now on, there would be quiet, meticulous work and constant observation. And one day, in the hopefully not so far future, Starbuck would be able to take his rightful place in society again. Whether it would be as a combat pilot, as an instructor of the Flight Academy on New Caprica or as the Leonid councillor, due to the fact that he was the last member of a noble House, it was to be seen.

"You know," he commented later in the evening, sitting with Jolly in a bar preferred by Starfleet personnel mostly, "I don't really mind the delay. I'm not ready to put _Sire_ before my name just yet."

Jolly did not deign to give him an answer to _that_. He just snorted derisively and attacked the large bowl of excellent Andorian stew standing in front of him on the table with due enthusiasm.

As Starbuck had often pointed out in the past, the finest points of sarcasm were hopelessly lost on him.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15: Epilogue

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.

This story is nearing its end. It won't be a real closure, as various plotlines will be continued in future parts of the "Lost Years" series. I'm just following it to a temporary end, because the events that lead any further won't be happening for years within the timeline of this particular AU. If you want to get the bigger picture, you should read "Crossroads" and "The Joy Machine", as this story takes place roughly between those two. More about the conspiracy will be told later in "Crisis on Aquarius" and in the "Lost Years"-episode "The Dark Side".

**

* * *

Chapter 15 – Epilogue**

Omega had lunch with his family, after which Aurora, Damon and the children – _sans_ Aggie, of course – returned to New Caprica with the regular shuttle. Omega stayed on the base for one more day… not the least because he had a dinner invitation from Athena. Who, surprisingly enough, had made the effort to prepare the dinner in question with her own hands. Not that she wouldn't have a perfectly good, working food synthesizer – diplomatic quarters were equipped with the newest _Nutritech_ models by default – but cooking for a friend was something she liked to do from time to time. Whenever her tight working schedule allowed it.

She couldn't shake off the strange feeling of _déja vu_, though. For some reason, she had to think of the infamous betrothal dinner of Apollo and Serina. How their father had set up the whole thing, to force Apollo's hand… well, in a matter of speaking anyway. Adama would never force any of his children to do what they didn't want to do, but he was known to grow impatient with their reluctance to bind themselves sometimes. And at those times, he could be a bit heavy-handed, although driven by the best intentions.

Athena had fought her father's well-meant matchmaking all her life. Just as she'd been removed from the Viper's cockpit and assigned to the bridge because Adama had thought that she'd be of better use there (not to mention safer), her father always thought to know who'd be the best-suited partner for life for her. Unfortunately, their opinions went widely apart in that particular matter, and after a while Athena ceased to date entirely. It just wasn't worth the grief. She knew she'd always remain a little girl in her father's eyes – a little girl who had to be protected and guided, for her own good.

Quitting the fleet and entering diplomatic service had been the best decision of her life. She could travel all across the Federation (and be only a welcome guest at home), she had her own staff, and responsibilities, and the respect of her colleagues… _and_ she had results that had finally earned the respect of her father as well. Not to mention that on a different planet, or in her diplomatic suite on Semiramis, she also had the personal freedom she could never have at home. Here, she was a person of her own, not just the cute little daughter of the legendary Commander Adama.

As much as she loved her father – and she truly, honestly did – it was a relief.

She'd been looking forward to this particular evening ever since she'd learned that Omega would be coming to Semiramis again. Despite the age difference, Omega had always been a good friend – not to mention that he was an attractive and intelligent man, and she'd missed suitable male company for a long time. Their similar tastes in food and music promised a peaceful evening, the main goal of which was to relax and enjoy themselves… without Adama's worried eyes in their backs. Even aboard the _Galactica_, her father would never object her keeping company with the elegant and cultivated bridge officer. Their Houses had been friends for generations, and Omega's manners had always been excellent.

She intended to put those manners to good use tonight. She wanted to have a pleasant evening of the sort she hadn't had since leaving home for the Flight Academy. An evening that was hers alone, without the intervention of family, duty, politics or any other outside factor.

She just wanted to have a little harmless fun.

* * *

This being an informal event, Omega came in his civilian clothes: in jet black and icy blue, the only civilian garment he'd taken with him aboard the _Galactica_, just in case he needed to represent his House on some official event where uniforms wouldn't be welcome. It even had the coat-of-arms of his House, now long gone, embroidered in gold on his jacket, right above his heart. It was – well, once had been – a son of a noble House was visiting someone of the same status. Like now.

Athena rose to the challenge. She was wearing blue, too: a flowing silk gown, shoulder-free and shimmering when the light fell over the fabric in the right angle, and her dark hair was pinned up on one side with an ancient silver brooch (that she'd inherited from her paternal great-grandmother) and let down on the other side.

"Orpheus," she said with a warm smile, calling Omega on his true name to emphasize the private nature of the evening. "It's been too long since we last met – not as two officers, not as a Colonial colonel and a Colonial diplomat… just you and me. It's a shame, really."

"It is," Omega agreed, kissing her hand gallantly. "What was the last time again? The graduation ceremony of Zack, I believe… almost four _yahrens_ ago. It seems a lifetime, doesn't it?"

"So much has changed," Athena said, a little sadly. "So much has been lost."

"But we've also gained a great deal," Omega reminded her gently. "We need to look into the future. At least we _have_ a future again… we, as a people, and also we as individuals."

"Unless we allow those vile old _vulpines_ to tear it away from us again, "Athena replied.

Omega took her deceivingly small, slender hand into his bigger one.

"Please, Athena," he said, "let us _not_ talk about politics tonight. Let us have some peace and quiet… we both deserve it."

"How right you are," Athena smiled and handed him the bottle of precious, twenty-_yahren_-old _ambrosa_ that she had found in a shop aboard the _Rising Star_ and had hurriedly bought, before anyone else could snatch it from before her nose. "Make yourself useful, then, while I look after the food."

Omega laughed and uncorked the bottle. The _ambrosa_ was smooth like oil and had quite the kick, and the food was excellent, and they didn't talk about politics on that evening at all. They recalled shared memories of they childhood – they both grew up on Natacapra, the most exclusive and expensive area of Caprica – discussed their career changes in the recent _yahrens_… and the not always pleasant turns of their private lives during the same period. It seemed that while their careers were improving steadily, their romantic encounters had all run off into the sand, as Sagittarians liked to put it.

"I really thought you'd found your true match in Jana Haines," Athena said in honest compassion. "She's a classy lady; and she could have kept up with your style and your status in Caprican society. She's a patrician herself, after all."

"Her blood is so blue that she could use it in one of those old-fashioned fountain pens instead of ink," Omega agreed with a melancholy smile. "We had a good time – it was great while it lasted. But she's a restless one, and she has a bright future before her. I would've only clipped her wings. She'd never give up all that: the stars, her research, her… her _life_, to settle down on New Caprica and raise a bunch of children with me… and I'd never ask her. She'd have become very unhappy, in a very short time. Not that I ever stood a chance to persuade her," he added.

"Too bad," Athena commented. "Sir Andrew Haines would have gladly accepted you as his son-in-law."

"Perhaps," Omega allowed, "but I was interested in his daughter, not in him or in his lands and position. And his daughter didn't want to burden herself with me and my ragtag family."

"Do you miss her?" Athena asked.

Omega shrugged and considered her question for a while.

"I miss her presence," he finally said. "I miss to have someone in my life. But I don't feel the same profound loss I used to feel every time a _furlough_ was over and I had to leave Clementia and our children behind on Caprica. They were part of my life in a way Jana could never be. When they died, that part of me has died with them. The rest of me has come back to life after a while, but…" he shrugged again. Then he turned the question back at her. "Do you miss Starbuck?"

Athena shook her head ruefully.

"No," she said. "I miss the feeling that went with him: the feeling of brightness of adventure, the memories of that first, childhood crush, the fun we used to have. But I always knew, deep within, that we weren't meant to be together. That's why I said no when he asked me to Seal with him."

"He actually asked you to _Seal_ with him?" Omega repeated in amazement. "_Starbuck_?"

"Hard to believe, I know," Athena smiled. "I think it happened out of despair… it was right after the Destruction, and he was shaken badly. He just wanted to _belong_ somewhere… to someone. Of course, had I known that that calculating little…" she added a Libran expression that was considered _not_ acceptable in noble Houses, "was going to hook her claws right into him, I might have changed my mind."

"Why, if you didn't want him?" Omega asked.

"Oh, I did _want_ him, all right," Athena replied, laughing, "I just didn't want to _Seal_ with him. Not at that time, at least. Not when I had just lost my mother, my baby brother, my home… almost everything. I mean, I loved Father and Apollo, I always have, but Zack was something special, and Mother… well, she was _Mother_. The last thing I wished was to start a new family, from the scratch, in the middle of the Destruction. I don't believe that Starbuck understood my reasons, though."

"Have you ever regretted it?" Omega asked. Athena shook her head.

"No. I'm not like Serina, whose first instinct was to snatch Apollo in his most vulnerable moment. I don't use people… well," she corrected herself, "not the ones who are important for me anyway."

"I wonder," Omega said in tolerant amusement, "Whether I belong to that category."

"Of course you do!" Athena exclaimed, clearly upset. "You're a dear old friend and have always been. Of course," she added with a blinding smile, "it's a mystery how I could overlook in all these _yahrens_ how gorgeous you are."

"Well, for starters, I was married," Omega pointed out. Athena nodded in agreement.

"There's that. And after the Destruction, we were both grieving, for a long time."

"And when we were done with grieving, you had already been under my command for a while," Omega added. "It would have been against regulations."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then laughed in unison. This whole discussion was certainly beyond ridiculous.

"Tell me the truth," Omega demanded, still chuckling. "Have you ever thought of it… thought of _me_ that way?"

"Honestly?" Athena laughed. "Not for a _micron_. You were older and even more grave than my grave older brother. _And_ you were married. _And_ my commanding officer. Those were all serious arguments against any unbecoming interests towards your person."

"I can see how they might be," Omega's dark eyes twinkled in amusement. "But things have taken a urn to the better, haven't they? I'm not your commanding officer any longer, I'm not married," all his ingrained discipline couldn't cover the deep pain in his voice, "although old and grave… yeah, I guess _that's_ gotten even worse."

Athena stopped laughing. An expression akin to wary uncertainty appeared on her beautiful face.

"Orpheus," she said, calling him on his true name again to show that she was being very serious, "what's your game? Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"And what if I am?" Omega asked. "Would it be so… outlandish?"

"Not outlandish, no," she replied, "but don't you see the pattern? I'm no more the good little homemaker than Jana was. I won't sit at home and raise children, either; not for a while yet, in any case. I'm a career diplomat, and I'm _needed_, especially with this… this conspiracy going on behind the scenes. I can't just quit, so that you might repopulate the House of Lares."

"I know," Omega said, "but there's a difference. You're one of us. You carry the same wounds, the same memories. You've been part of my life, one way or another, since our childhood. You knew my family. I don't want to lose _that_. You not only mean yourself to me, bright and brave and beautiful though you are. You mean Natacapra, and the sea at Naiacap, and concerts in Caprica City, and the pyramids of the capital… all those things we've lost and hat live on in our memories. No outsiders could ever share _that_, not even those from the other colonies or of different upbringing."

Athena thought about that. She had to admit that Omega – no, _Orpheus_ from the House of Lares – was right. For other people, _Siress_ Ila was just a name, a fading memory. But the members of the House of Lares had often visited Adama's family. Athena had practically grown up with Omega's youngest sister. She could still vividly remember the huge mansion in Natacapra where several generations lived together under the same roof, ruled by the family matriarch (who, at that time, happened to be _Siress_ Hestia, Omega's grandmother), the stables with the wondrous equines of _Sire_ Laertes, Omega's father, the music and laughter (and frequent squabbling) between brothers and sisters and cousins that filled the house. Gone, all gone… living on but in their shared memories.

Was _she_ willing to lose that?

"Well, at least Father would be content with my choice, for a change," she murmured with a self-mocking smile. "That I'd be finally considering someone whose line of ancestors is at least as long as his."

"Is his possible approval enough for you to reject the whole thought out of hand?" Omega deadpanned. Athena rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous! It's just… I've fought his expectations all my life, and that still colours a bit my judgement. If it's not easy to be the _son_ of the House of Adama – and Apollo could tell you stories about _that_ – imagine what it means to be a _daughter_ of it."

"I think I have a fairly good idea," Omega replied gently. "I used to have sisters, remember? And Grandfather Lares was a lot worse than your father could ever be. But what does that matter _now_? It's all in the past."

"Hopefully," Athena murmured. Omega raised a truly patrician eyebrow.

"Well, it's up to us, isn't it? Aside from the burden of our origins, though… do you think you might at least consider the idea?"

For a while, Athena remained silent, weighing the pros and contras of eventually Sealing with him… somewhen in the future. It was true, they had a lot in common, and what they ad shared in their childhood, and also later, on the bridge of the _Galactica_, could be a solid foundation to build a life together upon it. And besides, she was slowly growing out of the age in which one still expected the great, all-consuming love to come one's way.

_Been there, done that – and it was hardly worth the heart-ache_, she thought, darkly amused.

Then she realized that Omega was still waiting for an answer, with that customary patience of his.

"Look, Orpheus," she said. "This is all a bit sudden for my comfort. Give me time to think about it, will you?"

"Of course," Omega said. "It's only proper and reasonable when one has to make a decision for a lifetime. I'll leave you to your pondering, then," he added, raising from his seat. "You know how to contact me when you've made your choice."

"No," she said, laying a hand upon his forearm, "don't go. I've been alone for way too long. I don't want to be alone tonight."

"Would that be wise?" Omega asked, but pulled her to him nonetheless. He was tired of being alone, too.

"I don't care," she said, kissing his throat. "I'm done with being wise – at least for tonight. I want this… I want _you_. Just stay for the night… everything else we'll see later. There's no need to hurry things. Not anymore."

"I don't know," Omega murmured, removing the brooch from her hair and letting the lush, dark tresses cascade down her bare shoulder. "Right now, I do feel a certain... urgency that won't tolerate to be ignored."

"Don't ignore it, then," she replied, kissing his throat again and delighting in the sudden quickening of his pulse. "We have all night to play – and a lot to make up for."

That was certainly true, and so Omega followed her to the bedroom, well aware of the value of the unexpected gift he was given. They spent the night learning each other and sharing passion they had both missed for too long. And while Omega still had no promise extracted from her when he left for the _Galactica_ in the next morning, he had something that was almost better than a promise.

He had something to look forward to.

And he had hope.

For the first time since the Destruction, he had hope again.

The End


End file.
